


The Copper Beaches

by BiancaAparo



Series: The Solitary Hunter Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mary, Betaed, Canon Compliant, Canon Compliant Season 1 - 3, Case Fic, Child Abuse, Dear God the Angst..., Drug Use, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Holmes Brothers, Humor, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Mild Smut, Mycroft IS the British Government, Sexual Assault, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Story: The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, Tragic Romance, Triggers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 303,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiancaAparo/pseuds/BiancaAparo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He was going to be The One to Stump Sherlock Holmes..." </p>
<p>Mary is lying to John.<br/>Mycroft is lying to Sherlock.<br/>Violet is lying to everyone.<br/>Sherlock's not talking to anyone. </p>
<p>And John doesn't know what the hell is going on... as usual. </p>
<p>Also, there is a serial killer on the loose in the West End as well as a madman who may or may not have murdered his wife nearly twenty years ago. </p>
<p>So naturally, Sherlock's "First" decides to make an unwelcome reappearance in his life now...</p>
<p>~*~*~</p>
<p>Part Two of "The Solitary Hunter Trilogy." </p>
<p>This story is LOOSELY based on the ACD canon story "The Copper Beeches." </p>
<p>Beta'ed by cadoganwest and arielrose, my fanfic enablers. :^)</p>
<p>Additional Notes at the end...</p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When in Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDITED TO ADD: Discovered I'll be needing to add tags as I go...
> 
> Comments are always welcomed! Thanks for reading :^)

The Solitary Hunter Trilogy

Series Two: The Copper Beaches

“ _I'm gonna fight 'em off_  
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back  
They're gonna rip it off  
Taking their time right behind my back

 _And I'm talking to myself at night_  
Because I can't forget  
Back and forth through my mind  
Behind a cigarette

_And the message coming from my eyes  
Says leave it alone_

_Don't want to hear about it_  
Every single one's got a story to tell  
Everyone knows about it  
From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell…”

From _Seven Army Nation_ , The White Stripes

**

“ _Dear Mr. Holmes:_

_I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Violet Hunter_ ”

From _The Adventure of the Copper Beeches_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

~*~*~

Chapter One: When in Rome

“John?”

At the sound of the young voice of his literary agent’s personal assistant, Dr. John Watson looked up from his Smartphone. “Hi Lydia, is he ready for me then?”

“Yes, he sends his apologies, he got trapped by a conference call,” the young woman smiled widely and held the door even more widely open. “He’ll see you now.”

“Great, thanks,” he said, gathering his messenger bag, his mobile and his wits.

Located in a very unfashionable part of London, the office was not posh or even very modern looking. Very utilitarian, the carpets and furniture all dull shades of beige and grey. John did not really give a toss what the office looked like or what the address was. He cared about the work they did for him. And his family.

And by family, that of course included his very best friend, the eccentric and brilliant Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. The finest and cleverest man John had ever met… and whom he wanted to smack about the head and shoulders from time to time.

But nobody was _perfect_.

“John!” his agent, Timothy Spotsworth, got up from his desk to shake John’s hand. “Apologies, apologies. That twat at Random House would not shut up. Did Lydia offer you tea? Coffee?”

John shook his head, stated he had been asked but did not need a drink and settled as best as he could into the uncomfortable chair in front of Timothy’s desk. A lean man with graying hair and outdated bifocals, Timothy had been the only literary agent willing to take John on as a client after John took Mary’s advice about turning his blogs into proper novels.

As Timothy started to explain, all those other agents, as well as all the other publishers who had turned John’s book down, were now wailing and gnashing their teeth.

“The news couldn’t be better. As you already know _The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist_ has moved up to the Number Four Spot on the _New York Times_ Best Sellers List, which is bloody fantastic. Wildly exceeds our expectations. That was the telephone call I was stuck in. We’re discussing a possible second re-printing and if so, how many. Random House thinks Sherlock’s popularity will only grow, especially in America, the Anglophiles can’t get enough of us.”

“Wow,” John said, a little faintly. “Great, fantastic.” 

“I just got the numbers in for the digital downloads as well and it’s Number Nine on iTunes, Number Seven on BarnesandNoble.com and Number Thirteen on Amazon, which are also enormous jumps as well. And we’ve settled on a  date for the hard-cover release of _The Case Blog of Sherlock Holmes_. I’ll have Lydia email you the date and the marketing itinerary so you can be sure  your diary is clear as possible for the press tour, some signings and readings at bookstores, you know the usual…” he hesitated. “I don’t suppose you could convince Mr. Holmes to put in a few appearances?”

“Not for all the tea in China nor the Scotch in Scotland,” John said firmly.

“Right, I figured, but never hurts to ask,” Timothy said, a bit disgruntled now. But he shook it off. “Speaking of America, Hollywood has been sniffing around a bit too. No firm offers yet but Robert Downey Jr. has expressed an interest in playing the lead if a film adaptation gets the green light, which is exciting.”

John grinned “I honestly don’t know if that would please Sherlock or irritate him.”

“Well, I’m not sure if my next bit of news will please or irritate you. CBS has expressed their interest in creating a television show loosely based off the books and blog.”

“How loose?”

“Err… they want to cast a woman as Dr. Watson.”

“Oh,” John blinked. “Well… um, as long as it’s a pretty lady, I guess I don’t mind.”

“Mind you, this is all talk. I haven’t received any solid offers.”

“Yes, of course,” John said, a little dazed.

What did he say all those years ago in Ella’s office during therapy?

_Nothing ever happens to me…_

“So,” Timothy said brightly, “All we need to discuss is you fulfilling your contract and giving us that third book…” he trailed off, giving John a persuasive smile.

John shook his head. “I know what you want me to write about. But I can’t. It’s still too soon.”

“John, it’s been three years.”

“It’s _only_ been three years,” John said, shaking his head. “Besides, that’s not my call. Sherlock already said no. I have not been given permission to write about…”

His throat suddenly closed up. He swallowed hard. “… about the shooting.”

“Somebody else might take it in their head to write about it.” There was a hint of a warning, a touch of a warning in Timothy’s voice.

“Then that somebody else will look like a bloody idiot when Sherlock is ready to share that story and I write the truth about it, won’t they?” John responded quietly.

“OK, OK,” Timothy held his hands up. “Truce, please. I understand, I do. I’m not heartless. It’s a very painful subject and I just thought… Well,” Timothy sounded flustered for moment but recovered quickly “But since we do still need a third book, let’s hash out what that one should be about.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick folder. Flipping through it, he said “I’ve got some ideas… we could flesh out the first case you worked with Mr. Holmes…  the _Study in Pink_ case? The _Hounds of Baskerville_ case could be great as a novel too… it’s almost like an old-fashioned gothic horror novel…” He flipped another page over, pausing. “Or…then there’s the _Copper Beaches_ case.” He took out a photograph and handed it to John.

John took it, smiled a little.

Violet.

One of the few photographs of her in existence.

She stood next to Sherlock Holmes, clad in a fantastic electric-blue gown, her chestnut hair straightened and styled sleekly in an old _femme fatale_ style popular in the classic black-and-white films. Her long hair obscured most of her face. What her hair didn’t hide, a huge pair of sunglasses did.

Sherlock looked like he always did when forced to make public appearance: scowling, unfriendly, disdainful. He wore one of his posh designer suits, of course and his hair the usual mess of black curls.

As John reminisced, Timothy said “You know, that would make a good bookend to _The Solitary Cyclist_. And it doesn’t dredge up too many uncomfortable memories, does it?”

“Mmm,” John said, sliding the picture back to Timothy. “I’ll run it past Sherlock. Can’t guarantee anything. If I can’t get him to consent to _The Copper Beaches_ , I’m sure he’ll agree to either _A Study in Pink_ or _The_ _Hounds_.”

“Sounds good,” Timothy stood up again. “Always a pleasure, these face-to-face meetings. Doesn’t happen too often does it?”

John shook Timothy’s hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, for us. My head’s still spinning, all of this is still sinking in. I-I really can’t believe it.”

“Enjoy it, you deserve it. The both of you. All of you, really.” Timothy said. He then cleared his throat, looked slightly uncomfortable. “Meant to ask you, how is everything with you? On the home front?”

“Um, good. OK, considering,” John said, now desperately wanting to leave. He knew exactly what Timothy’s next question was going to be:

“How’s Mary?”

John searched for an appropriate answer. He smiled wanly.

“As well as can be expected…” 

**

18 July 2015  
London, England  
Saturday  
2:25 PM

Panda cars had parked haphazardly everywhere. Police tape decorated the scene like ribbons on a Christmas present. Coppers and forensics ran about like decapitated chickens. Reporters shouted out stupid questions and the paparazzi kept snapping pictures of anything and everything at the scene, their flashes as bright as the sun itself.

A scene. He had created a scene!

He wriggled with excitement, worked hard to keep the glee from showing on his face.

This was his third murder. In broad daylight. And he was going to get away with it.

He was going to be The One to Stump Sherlock Holmes.

He had stayed hidden in the crowd, blended in with the other onlookers. He had risen to his tiptoes, to look over the heads of the other spectators when the inevitable black cab pulled up to thekerb . He could barely manage to see the top of the Great Detective’s curly head before he disappeared inside the third victim’s terrace house. There was no way he could tell whether or not the Good Doctor was with him.

He lowered himself back to stand flatfooted, his face concerned and worried like everyone else. Inside, he was singing an aria of joy.

He was going to get away with it.

There was zero physical evidence. _Zero_. There was nothing to connect him to the three women he had killed. He had  deliberately selected his victims at random. The poison was rat-bait you could buy at any convenience store, and he deliberately bought the poison at different stores, different chains. Paid cash, of course.

The women had all let him in and he had killed them before they even knew they were dead.

He was going to get away with it.

And he was going to do it again. And again. And again.

And Sherlock Holmes would go mad with impotence, with the inability to solve this case.

He would be more infamous than Jim Moriarty.

“Um, pardon me? Sir?”

A melodic, fluid voice interrupted his happy daydreams. Frowning, he turned and looked to see a well-dressed woman standing next to him, wearing ridiculously overlarge sunglasses. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in some fancy up-do topped off with a dainty hat with a stupid little veil. A gauzy scarf was tied jauntily around her slender neck. Her spring-green dress seemed more appropriate to a garden party than a murder scene.

“Yes?” he asked, swallowing his irritation.

“You know, if you’re going to commit murder, you really should not return to the scene of the crime,” she said helpfully.

His jaw dropped. “ _What?_ ”

She made a twirling motion with her finger “Turn around.”

He turned.

Sherlock Holmes stood less than an inch away from him. “Hello.”

He yelped, tried to run, but Sherlock grabbed him by his arm then twisted it roughly behind his back. “Simon Mitchell, as it is that I am on a rather tight schedule, I would appreciate it if you would just cooperate as I turn you over to the authorities.”

The onlookers had backed up, wide-eyed and slack-jawed that the killer and the detective and his mysterious new “assistant” (and also rumored live-in girlfriend) had been in their midst the entire time.

Sherlock’s “assistant/girlfriend” looked at her watch, a dainty gold lady’s watch that looked more like a bracelet than a proper wristwatch. “You have no idea how tight of a time schedule.”

“ _Thank you_ , Miss Smith,” Sherlock started pushing Simon through the crowd, towards the police. “Perhaps instead of alerting me to how behind we are falling in schedule, you could be more useful by clearing a path for me and Mr. Mitchell?”

“Oh with pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” her musical voice sang with sarcasm. But she plucked her mobile out of her elegant handbag and rang Detective Inspector Dimmock as she attempted to push through the crowd of onlookers, press and paparazzi. Soon, officers from The Met, accompanied by DI Dimmock managed to create a path so Sherlock, Violet Smith and the very unlucky Simon Mitchell could get out of the crowd and behind the police tape.

“Obvious,” Sherlock said as a confused sergeant handcuffed a whimpering Mitchell. “His laces. He bought the same brand and same color of shoelaces at every convenience store he had bought the rat poison. He suffered from a mild case of OCD, cannot stand to have his laces dirty, will change them nearly daily. If you search his flat, you’ll find, hidden buried inside a  bag of used kitty litter, the empty rat poison packages. He felt it too risky to dispose of the packages at the scene and he was too arrogant to think he would ever be caught. After all, he’s a Mormon on a mission from Salt Lake City in America, right? No Mormon would ever be guilty of committing _murder_. That would be a sin. And who would turn away a young man in a foreign county, so lost and forlorn. Especially one who just wants to know if you can spare a moment to talk about your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”

Sherlock smiled sweetly at Simon Mitchell who started gibbering that he was innocent, he wasn’t an _American_ , he was _British_. “Oh, I know you’re British. I also know you’ve attended several acting and improvisational classes throughout London, so I know you can fake an American accent. And I also know that when the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints sends their young people out on a mission, they send them out by two, not one. You thought you were hiding in plain sight, in the end, you were rather obvious. Now, DI Dimmock,” Sherlock turned his back on Mitchell as the police dragged him away. “I hope you were writing that down because I’m afraid I have a very pressing engagement I must attend.”

“Of course, yes, thank you Mr. Holmes,” DI Dimmock said a bit breathlessly, “And you too Miss Smith. Thank you for your assistance on this case.”

She smiled frostily at Dimmock ,“You weren’t supposed to call him today of _all days_.”

Dimmock blanched. He had heard Miss Smith was not exactly a warm and fuzzy person. But then, no warm and fuzzy woman, no _ordinary_ woman would survive a relationship with someone like Sherlock Holmes, now would she?

“I know, I know,” he whispered desperately to Violet as Sherlock went to hail a cab. “When we found the body, I was at a complete loss.”

“If we’re late,” she stood ramrod straight, arms crossed, “DI Lestrade will petition to have you demoted to meter-maid, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course,” Dimmock felt like he was receiving a dressing-down from one of his old primary schoolteachers. “Apologies… uh, tell Greg and Molly all my best!” he called after her as she turned on her heel and walked towards Sherlock.

“I’ll do no such thing,” she shouted at him coldly over her shoulder just as a cab pulled up.

Sherlock opened the door and Miss Smith gracefully slid inside. Sherlock followed, slammed the door, gave the address to the cabbie and shut the glass partition between them .

Once the cab started moving though, Violet ceased being “Miss Smith.”

“If we’re late, Molly is going to kill us both.” She hissed as she took of her gigantic sunglasses, her hazel eyes narrowed at Sherlock.

Dimmock did not know how correct he was. Violet, of course, was no ordinary woman.  

For starters, she wasn’t even British.

And her last name was not _Smith_.

She had been hiding in plain sight for seven, nearly eight years now in England after having the supreme misfortune of her boss believing she was the best person to bring  overseas for an international convention just because she was fluent in German, Spanish and French… and she could read most people like a book…

… not as quickly or as accurately or in as much detail as the Great Detective, of course. No one could. But she was pretty damn good in her own right….

On the same day and year William Sherlock Scott Holmes had been born, she had been born in an American military hospital in Germany. Named Violet Jane Hunter, she lived the life of an American military brat, bouncing from base to base, primarily in Europe with a few brief stretches in America here and there. A few years later, her brother Michael had been born and the two of them had become inseparable.

Their bonds became tighter when they became orphans. First their mother, Vanessa Hunter, had been killed in a car accident. Later, their father, Major Anthony Hunter, had died under suspicious circumstances during Desert Storm. Violet only recently learned it was true, her father had been murdered.

The orphans were shipped back to Indiana to be raised by their stern but loving grandmother. Violet had grown up to become a criminal profiler for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She had been good at her job. Too good…when she just happened to look up from her Blackberry and located the traitor in their team, the man selling out their country, she very quickly got herself on the wrong side of some very powerful and heartless people. These people leaned heavily on their sources within the FBI to have Violet and her entire team burned while they were in England for a conference about international kidnappings. While Violet, her boss and the rest of her team were stranded in London with no money and no identity, their families were told they had all died in a plane crash over the Atlantic on their return flight.

Michael, now a renowned journalist for _The New York Times_ , didn’t buy it. He started digging.

He got himself killed for his trouble.

Violet blamed herself for his death.

For a long time, she had also blamed herself for the apparent suicide of Sherlock Holmes. While she had been forced to live on the other side of the law, she did “freelance work” for the True IRA. Her contact “Ciaran” wanted her to spy on Sherlock Holmes because he was a pressure point for the _ipso facto_ British government, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s frosty elder brother. But it didn’t take long for Violet to see that Ciaran, the doe-eyed Irishman, was actually dangerously and pathologically obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. Despite needing the IRA’s money and good will to prove her own innocence and to root out the real traitors, Violet ceased giving Ciaran critical personal information regarding the detective…

Good thing too, because Ciaran had really been Jim Moriarty.

When Moriarty committed the Crime of the Century in 2011, Violet and her FBI partner, Special Agent Steven Morgan immediately fled, diving into deep underground. They took shelter at their undisclosed bolt hole in Soho. No landlines, no wifi, no bank cards. Off the grid completely.

Moriarty found them anyway.

Under great duress, Violet gave Moriarty the names of the three people Sherlock Holmes loved. John Watson, of course, was a known entity. But Violet had lied, in order to protect Sherlock’s other best friend, the pathologist, Molly Hooper. Violet told the madman that Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, his batty old landlady, were the other two people Sherlock loved more than anyone else. The DI and the landlady stood a better chance against Moriarty than Molly Hooper. True, her gentle exterior concealed a spine of steel, but Molly did not have a police force at her command nor was her block of flats constantly under Big Brother’s surveillance.

Moriarty had thanked Violet, then viciously stabbed Steven to death. He attacked her, hit her head hard enough to give her a concussion then savagely assaulted her with intent “finish the job later.” He told her in his slithery sing-song voice : “Thank you, bless you. In a few days, when you see my _pièce de résistance_ , my magnum opus, you will understand that it was possible all because of _you_.”

Too late, she realized what Moriarty intended to do to Sherlock and his three loved ones.

Needing to stay hidden, but driven to expose Moriarty and to save an innocent man, Violet bagged the knife Moriarty had used to kill Steven. Moriarty, in his excitement,  had not worn gloves, so she had his fingerprints. Then she started the flat on fire to protect her identity.

She went to King’s Cross and put the knife in a locker for safekeeping. But she had passed out from her head injury when she tried to get a cab to take her to 221B Baker Street. She woke up in St. Bart’s just in time to see the news about Sherlock Holmes taking John Watson hostage and fleeing the police.

In a sad, sick twist of fate, the additional twist of the knife, Violet Hunter snuck out of the very hospital the same day John and Sherlock would sneak into it later… and the very hospital whose roof Sherlock would jump off …

Violet desperately tried to contact Sergeant Sally Donovan. Naturally she couldn’t just waltz into Scotland Yard, so she called and called and called, filling up Donovan’s voice mail, pleading, begging her to Call Back… Violet had no idea just how stubborn or prideful Donovan was… it would be months later before DI Lestrade would learn Donovan withheld information, all of Violet’s voice mails, that would have proved “Richard Brooks” had been responsible for abducting the American ambassador’s children, not Sherlock.

In the end, it didn’t matter… or so it seemed. Violet had been clear across on the other side of the city when Sherlock fell. She found out just like everyone else, through the news.

She, however, was one of the very few who thought it was murder.

After Sherlock’s “death,” she sought out her old boss, Section Chief Robert Carson, the man she affectionately called “Bear.” He found her a new persona. She rose from the ashes as “Miss Smith,” an unruffled, regal Englishwoman. Her ear for languages helped her master a proper English accent as well as using the correct British slang. She became the personal assistant to “Mr. Carruthers” (Carson’s false identity). She worked with “Carruthers” at the insurance agency he seemed to run. In actuality, it was a front for a money laundering business belonging to Jack Woodley, the actual traitor within the FBI.

Violet had known it was Jack when she witnessed him on the last day of the conference disregard the correct protocol on how to treat an English lord. She had also known this particular lord, Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, the Earl of Winchester, was about as vile and sadistic as they could get. She also knew Jack had treated him familiarly to tip him off that the American Feds considered him a Person of Interest regarding the _Rouge_.

Jack had been killing off all their team members one by one during her seven year exile. Soon, Violet and Bear were the last two agents alive.

So together, Violet and Bear worked gathering evidence to prove Jack’s wrongdoings while still investigating the Earl, trying to find something to pin on him…

In her spare time, plagued by guilt, Violet followed up on John Watson. Not to the degree she had spied on Sherlock. Just checking up on him, making sure he was OK. Making sure he was healing. Making sure no one else gunned for him… made sure his life stayed nice and quiet…

… But then Sherlock returned from his Great Hiatus…

… And then Moriarty, not to be outshined by the Great Detective, also came back.

Violet had been in Piccadilly the Day Moriarty Asked the World: “Did you miss me?”

It had been the second time in her life she had passed clean out.

And so Violet waited. Waited in trepidation for her path to inevitably cross again with Sherlock’s.

Which it  did, nearly four months ago when Sherlock and John appeared at her office.

And fresh hell had broken loose.

Sherlock decided to take the case. Decided to once again take on Moriarty’s network, better known as _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ or the Red Headed League, decided to finish what he started when he jumped off the roof at St. Bart’s…

Eventually Jack Woodley had been vanquished. Vanquished, meaning that she had shot him in the head multiple times after he had captured her and tortured her. Sherlock and John had of course found her and actually rescued her. But Violet was the one who shot Jack to death. Not only had Jack killed her entire team, which now included Bear, but he had helped torture her brother to death. Before Sherlock and John had arrived, he had gleefully showed her pictures. So she gladly pulled the trigger on Jack once Sherlock had freed her.

But the Earl remained a threat.

So did Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock, naturally, knew she was a fraud the minute he laid eyes on her. He also knew her life was in mortal danger. Not only had she pissed off the _Rouge_ and the FBI, but also his big brother was very interested in her, interested in her secrets.

Which meant Sherlock was interested in her. He became so interested in her, he actually ended up… liking her.

As a person in her own right.

As his friend. A good friend.

He did not _fancy_ her, as John claimed he did.

And it was all John’s fault he had to act like he fancied her anyway.

After Violet’s flat had exploded (courtesy of the _Rouge_ ) Violet and her Alsatian (a former police dog called _Gladstone_ for some absurd reason…) had spent the night at 221B Baker Street. She had no other clothes other than what was in the two bags she managed to grab before her flat blew up. So she borrowed one of Sherlock’s huge t-shirts as pyjamas that night. She happened to be only wearing only the t-shirt when Mrs. Hudson walked in. Mrs. Hudson took one look at Violet’s bare legs and bed head and jumped to the utterly incorrect conclusion.

John mischievously egged Mrs. Hudson in her delusion before either Sherlock or Violet could recover enough to correct the poor woman. At that very same time, Mycroft had sent a message to Sherlock informing him that the disavowed federal agent had been remanded into his custody. She was to remain at 221B Baker Street until further notice.

And with that, a cover story was born. Or as Violet had put it: “The worst cover story ever.”

Except, it wasn’t. _It worked_.

People, the general public, actually believed a high-functioning sociopath was in a relationship with an ice-queen.

As Sherlock had said once: “People are stupid.”

And Violet had replied: “So stupid.”     

But, here they were. In the back seat of a cab, after breaking the record for Quickest Resolution of a Murder Ever on their way to a wedding. 

After Violet informed Sherlock Molly would murder them for being late, he absently murmured as he thumbed through his Smartphone, looking for a particular app, “Do calm down, my dear Violet. Molly will not kill us both.”

“You’re right,” Violet said, finding her compact in her handbag and clicking it open. Expertly touching up her face, making sure her freckles and her newest scar (a gift courtesy of Jack Woodley) were concealed by a layer of powder, she added “She’ll just kill _you._ She is still pissed off about Greg’s bachelor party.”

“Oh _pah_ ,” Sherlock looked up from his mobile, “The stag party was not my idea. John planned it.”

“Bullshit,” she hissed…

***  
13 June 2015  
Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper’s residence  
Saturday evening  
7:17 PM

“Thanks for keeping me company tonight,” Molly Hooper said, carrying a tea tray.

“Molly Hooper, what are you doing?” Mary Watson scolded the young woman as she jumped off the love seat to take the tray from her. She nearly tripped over poor old Toby, Molly’s cat in the process. “Go ‘way, kitty,” Mary said as Toby decided to rub up and down her leg.

“Honestly, you are all as bad as Greg,” Molly grizzled, although she seemed relieved Mary took the heavy tray from her. “I’m pregnant, not crippled.”

Violet had been behind her, carrying a tray full of sweets and snacks for them all to nosh on. “Molly, we’re supposed to spoil you, not the other way around. Do sit down,” she said in her best “Violet Smith” voice, a British accent no one had questioned for over seven years… until Sherlock called her out on it, of course.

Her “Violet Smith” costume was quite extensive. Her naturally curly dishwater blonde hair was religiously colored a soft chestnut shade of red that looked quite natural. If she had time, she straightened her hair but if not, she usually pulled back into a neat little bun at the nape of her neck. She had learned which cosmetics to buy and how to apply them so her freckles would stay concealed. She wore fake eyeglasses or enormous sunglasses to hide her hazel eyes.

She even drank coffee and cola and didn’t immediately brush her teeth afterwards so they would become slightly discolored. She fought against her American vanity but there had been times she almost broke down and scrubbed her teeth with peroxide so they would whiten again…  

But of course, she’d had braces at age thirteen, which was one of the reasons why Sherlock had been able to deduce her actual nationality. However, he had helped her conceive a lie if she would ever be asked about her perfectly unnaturally straight teeth again:

“Tell them your mother was American. She was obsessed with orthodontia, as you Americans all seem to be, and that your father gave in because he tired of arguing with her.”

While Violet Hunter preferred t-shirts and jeans, Violet Smith dressed neatly, almost primly. For the Girls’ Night In with Molly Hooper, bride-to-be and mother-to-be, Violet wore a neat denim skirt, sensible brown sandals and a modest brown top. That would be Miss Smith’s idea of Casual for a Night In With the Girls.

Mary wore Capri slacks, a tank top and white Converse trainers. Molly, five months along now, wore a pretty blue maternity top, yoga bottoms and was barefoot. Neither Mary nor Molly wore make-up.

Violet felt overdressed and wished the Baker Street Boys would have taken her along when they took Lestrade out for his stag party…. But no girls allowed.

Molly had not been pleased that John planned a stag party for her fiancé. Sherlock, as usual, had not seen the point of having a party for Lestrade. But as John explained, they kind of owed Lestrade one. Lestrade had been more than a bit ratty when he learned not only had he not been invited to John’s stag party, but he had to bail John and Sherlock out of gaol. So after Molly gave in, John told Sherlock “We have to make this a good party. We really have to make it up to Greg, don’t we?”

Sherlock had of course replied, “Do we really?” but after being on the receiving end of John’s displeased glance, agreed to help plan and attend “George’s” stag party. Both Mary and Violet agreed to pamper Molly and keep her company while they were out carousing.

As Molly gratefully sank down into a comfortable leather armchair and as Mary poured the tea, Violet mused about the double lives all the women in this room led.

 _I wonder if I proposed we play_ Truth or Dare she thought. _I bet every single one of us would choose_ Dare. 

She could not lay her finger on it, but Mary Morstan Watson was no sweet, mild-mannered nurse. When Sherlock had been abducted at the end of March, it had been Mary who figured out what Sherlock had deduced and what caused him to run straight into the lion’s den without bringing John or Violet or even Lestrade along for back up.

Also, John had insisted Mary accompany Molly when the pregnant pathologist offered to mule the information Violet had complied over the years about Jack Woodley and the _Rouge_ to Mycroft. But it just didn’t seem like John had wanted Mary to go with Molly so she would also enjoy protective custody…. He had acted like he wanted Mary to protect Molly. As if she could do a better job than MI-6.

So when Jack Woodley appeared out of the blue last May, looking for her, Violet had taken a desperate chance, a shot in the dark. After sending an SOS text to Sherlock and telling Molly to go to the ladies’ room and stay there until Mary fetched her, Violet asked Mary for help…

… in Russian.

Mary had understood.

“Mary, I’m not your enemy,” Violet had told her and meant it.

But she certainly hoped Mary wasn’t her enemy.

They had accompanied Sherlock and John to Scotland shortly after John and Violet had retrieved Sherlock from the _Rouge’_ s clutches. There had been confirmed Moriarty sightings, so of course Mycroft had asked (ordered) Sherlock to go at once.

While they got along during the trip and actually worked quite well together, Mary and Violet also eyed each other warily, trying to figure the other out. But they could never talk privately. Sherlock and John masterfully kept the two women apart. If they were alone together, it was for never more than five minutes at a time.

Violet also had the feeling Sherlock found the whole subterfuge hilarious.

Molly, on the other hand, was no laughing matter.

Lestrade was not the father of her child.

Sherlock was.

Neither John nor Violet knew quite what had exactly happened between Molly and Sherlock, other than the obvious end result. The only reason the pair of them had confirmation of her baby’s paternity was because Sherlock had told them. Blurted it out in a drug-induced haze, actually. Not only had Sherlock managed to get himself abducted by the _Rouge_ , but he had managed to get himself reacquainted with cocaine and freshly addicted to heroin. Jack Woodley had forcibly injected Sherlock with a dangerous mix of cocaine and heroin in order to keep him placated. By the time Violet and John had found him, Sherlock had been on the tail end of his high, ready for the crash. The agitation and paranoia had already set in by then. Confused and disoriented, he confessed he was the father but Molly had decided he wasn’t to be involved.

His words still haunted and hurt Violet…

_She told me she didn’t want anything from me, she told me I’d be an awful father, is that true John? I was alright with Archie at your wedding, wasn’t I?.._

_They’ll take her John, they’ll take her, they’ll hurt her, hurt both of them. You can’t let anyone know. You can’t let her tell anyone else, you can’t let anyone hurt Molly or the baby, they count… please John, promise me, please…_

The fear, the actual anguish in his voice had been palpable. The drugs had stripped away the detachment, the disregard for the sentimental and for the weak.

She still heard his delusional ranting and raving while he had been suffering withdrawal in her dreams. Dreams, not nightmares. Not the most pleasant of dreams to be sure. But they served to remind her there was a good man with a greater heart hidden deep beneath  the layers of cool logic and deductive reasoning and icy reserve…

… really, really deep down.

She lived with the man. She also had to admit he could be such an… _ass_ at times.

Most of the time, really.

She had left the ringer on her mobile on. She just had a feeling she was going to a get a call, as her old boss and friend would say, her “spidey sense” was tingling… 

 _Tonight is going to be a shitstorm_ she thought as she took a dainty sip of tea, heavily sugared.

She hated tea but had learned to choke it down. _When in Rome…_

“It’s so lovely you two came over to keep me company while the boys are out,” Molly said. “Can’t really have a proper Hen’s Night,” she unconsciously ran her hand over her belly, a round firm little ball underneath her maternity top. “And most of my old friends from primary school and uni are all scattered all over the country so it’s not really easy for them to come visit. But when they do, they want to go absolutely crazy because they’re free from husbands and kids and jobs and well… I just don’t care much for clubs and whatever. I just feel bad if you are all bored. I’m rather dull company these days.”

“Bored?” Violet said incredulously. “This is a welcome relief. Do you know what that… that… _madman_ brought home earlier this week?”

“Eyeballs?” Mary guessed.

“Kidneys,” Molly offered but quickly added “But he didn’t get them from me. I cut him off.”

“Fish,” Violet said.

Mary and Molly stared at her blankly. “Errm, fish?” Mary blinked.

“Like fish-and-chips? He actually bought dinner for once?” Molly asked.

Violet shook her head “Two days ago I went to a hot yoga class so I felt really sweaty and grubby afterwards. All I wanted to do when I got home was take a nice bath. But when I got home and went into the bathroom, I looked into the tub and saw… fish.”

“Fish…” Molly said, torn between laughing and frowning. “Living fish?”

“As in,” Mary made a fish-face with her lips “Fishies. Swimming about?”

“Oh yeah… but that wasn’t the worst part…”

***

11 June 2015  
221B Baker street  
Thursday evening  
5:17 PM

Violet Hunter stared down at the tub in horror as several pretty orange and black koi fish circled around and around in the bathtub.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she grumbled, feeling her yoga clothes sticking to her sweaty body.

She did an about-face, stalked out of the bathroom, stood in the hallway and shrieked at the top of her lungs “SHERLOCK! WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL???”

Gladstone (the loyal and beloved yet extremely lethal Alsatian) meanwhile had trotted past Violet and made a sharp turn into the bathroom, his black nose twitching. Soon there was the sound of splashing and barking.

“Oh _shit_!” Violet cried, turning too late to try to  stop her dog. But Gladstone already zipped past her, a big orange-and-black fish flopping vainly in the dog’s powerful jaws.

“NO!” Violet yelled at her dog as she gave chase. “Nonononononononononononononnono!” She ran after him through the lounge, jumping over the coffee table, on and off the sofa, around Sherlock and John’s chairs, chased him out of Sherlock’s bedroom after the dog had dribbled fish blood and fish guts all over Sherlock’s nice duvet. She ran through the lounge again, up the stairs to John’s old room, back down again and managed to corral the hound into the kitchen.

The entire time she had yelled at the dog:

“Stone, NO.”

“Bad dog, bad dog!”

“Drop it, _drop it_!”

“ _Stoppen, stoppen!_ ”

Sherlock, meanwhile, stayed in his chair the entire time, placidly reading.

After Violet managed to shut Gladstone into the kitchen she stood in front of Sherlock, hands on hips, tapping her foot.

Sherlock flicked his eyes up at her. “Oh,” he said casually, turning the page of his book. “When did you get home?”

Violet ripped the book out of his hands. “Why the FUCK are there _fish in the bathtub_?”

“It’s an experiment.”

“Well, my dog is eating one of your experiments.”

“Why is he eating my fish? He has dog food. Those fish were expensive!”

“HOW IS THIS MY FAULT?”

“Well, I _did_ shut the bathroom door so he wouldn’t get in there, didn’t I?”  

Sherlock clambered out of his chair mere seconds before Violet lunged for him. “You did say,” Sherlock attempted reasoning with his livid flat-mate, “you didn’t have a problem with me continuing with my experiments in the flat as long as I didn’t bring human body parts home. Now, koi fish aren’t human body parts, are they?”

Violet threw his book at him. He ducked. “John never had a problem with my experiments.” He ducked again as Violet lobbed his cup of cold tea at his head. “Now you are just being childish.”

“I am going to kick your ass,” Violet announced, darting around Sherlock’s chair to get to him.

“You’re not going to win this,” Sherlock said, his dressing gown flapping behind him as he sidestepped to avoid a punch she just threw at him. “Your kickboxing will do no good,” he told her haughtily. “I can predict every hit and kick you plan on making.”

“You’re right,” Violet said, her hazel eyes darting all over the place until they locked on their target. “I’m just going to phone your mother.”

“ _Don’t you dare!_ ”

Too late he realized he had left his mobile on the big table in the lounge.   

Violet shot him a wicked smile and bolted towards the table. Swearing, Sherlock climbed over his chair to stop her. She snatched up the mobile, but he grabbed her around the waist and picked her up clean off her feet. She clasped the mobile to her chest as she kicked wildly. “ _Let me go, put me down!_ ”

“ _Give me my bloody mobile!_ ” He grabbed her wrist, squeezing so she would drop it, his other arm still wrapped around her waist as she flailed around.

She dipped her head down and bit his arm. Hard.

“OW!”

He dropped her right on her backside.

The mobile slipped from her hand and skittered across the floor.

Sherlock and Violet both looked at each other. Then they both dived for the mobile.

Sherlock grabbed it first, but Violet tackled him, pulled his hair.

“OW! Stop fighting dirty!”

“How else is there to fight?”

“Well, it’s not fair,” he whined as he wrestled her, trying to pin her to retrieve his mobile. “You know I won’t hit back because you’re a femal-OW! STOP THAT!”

She had pulled his hair again, wouldn’t let go this time. 

So he grabbed the bun at the nape of her neck and gave it a solid yank.

“OW!” she squealed “You son-of-a-bitch!”

Sherlock wriggled away from her, got to his feet and ran for the door. “Well, you’re always the one saying how chivalry is dead-” he ducked again as a vase came hurtling towards him, smashing against the wall. “Yes, well…”

He flung open the door and fled for his life.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson cried out as Sherlock ran down the stairs past her, barefooted, wearing only his pyjamas and dressing gown. “What is going on, what is all that crashing about?”

“ _Not now Mrs. Hudson!_ ” Sherlock yelled behind him.

Violet was hot on his heels. “Pardon me, Mrs. Hudson,” she gasped out, barely remembering to use her British accent. Then she yelled “YOU COME BACK HERE AND GET THOSE BLEEDING FISH OUT OF THE BATHTUB!” as she chased Sherlock down Baker Street.

In a quivery voice, Mrs. Hudson called after the happy couple, “Are you two having a domestic?”

Then she frowned. Fish? _What fish_?

“Oh dear,” she sighed, going up to 221B to investigate.

***

13 June 2015  
Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper’s residence  
Saturday evening  
7:39 PM

 “We were lucky the paparazzi weren’t around for once,” Violet Smith finished her story. “They would have had a field day.”

“What happened to the fish?” Molly asked while thinking _Dear God my child’s father is a lunatic_.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Violet said as Mary succumbed to giggles. Despite herself, Violet smiled and shook her head. “I think Mrs. Hudson called her magic elves because they were gone when Sherlock and I came back. Sherlock sulked for the rest of the night. The bathroom still reeks of fish though,” Violet made a face. “So, truly, Molly, I’m OK with boring.”

Her mobile vibrated.

She took it out of her skirt pocket and looked at the Caller ID.

Sherlock Holmes.

_Oh no…_

“Yes?” she said a bit impatiently, expecting to hear Sherlock’s baritone on the other end.

Instead was a wavering tenor voice, “Um, is this Violet Smith?”

“Yes, how can I help you?” Violet closed her eyes, feeling Molly and Mary staring at her, silently asking her what was going on. She shook her head and shrugged. 

“Well, we were given your mobile number as a contact number. We need you to come fetch your man and his mates. As soon as possible. They’re, um, all rather pissed. And they won’t come down,” the young man on the other side of the call said regretfully.

“What do you mean, _won’t come down_?”

After the young man explained himself, Violet put her fingers to her forehead, started rubbing. “Right, yes. Of course. We’ll be there shortly. I am so _so_ sorry. Thank you for your discretion.”

Violet opened her eyes and looked at the blonde and the ginger (well, auburn really) across from her. “Grab your handbags ladies,” she sighed.

Thirty minutes later, the trio arrived at the London Eye.

“So…” an unfamiliar hardness crept into Molly’s voice. “When you said, they won’t come down…” she pointed up at the massive Ferris Wheel.

“Ah, yes. Apparently they started drinking about three this afternoon. Got pissed at Greg’s favorite pub and um… yeah.” Violet crossed her arms, stared up resignedly at the tourist trap.

Mary covered her face. “This is mortifying.”

“Your boyfriend,” Molly glowered at Violet. “Got my fiancé smashed and they’ve riding around a Ferris Wheel for well over an hour now. Do you have any idea what it would look like if Greg got arrested for public intoxication? He could face an inquiry at his _job_.”

“Why is Sherlock getting all the blame, he doesn’t even drink that much! It could have been John plying them both with drink all day!”

“Oh this is mostly definitely John’s fault. He said Drunk Sherlock is hi-lar-ious,” Mary kept her face buried in her hand. “He probably thought it would be funny to have Drunk Sherlock try to do deductions from the top of the Eye.”

 _Actually, that would be really funny_ , Violet thought but kept that thought to herself. Molly looked positively murderous.

“I thought John would keep Sherlock and Greg in line?” Molly scowled.

Mary and Violet exchanged panicked looks. “Let’s go fetch the boys, dear,” Mary said, putting her arm around Molly.

“I’m going to kill the lot of them,” Molly promised.

“I know,” Mary said, shooting Violet another nervous look.

“And stop bloody coddling me!” she shrugged off Mary’s arm. “I’m pregnant, not handicapped!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mary let Molly march ahead of her. She leaned over to Violet and whispered, “We’re going to a pub after this, right?”

“Oh God yes,” Violet said, “A thousand times yes.”

“Good,” her blue eyes crinkled up at Violet. “Glad to know you’re not my enemy.”

Violet looked down at the pavement, then at Mary. “I’m really not, you know.”

“I know,” Mary sighed. “Someday, you and I. We’ll come clean with each other.”

“Yes,” Violet agreed, “But today’s not that day.”

“No,” she looked up at the Eye again. “Why on earth do we put up with them?”

“In our own twisted way,” Violet looked heavenwards again. “We love them.” 

“By the way,” Mary said when they started walking towards the Eye. “Your English accent is excellent, really good.”

“Thanks,” Violet said “So is yours.”

“Oh, thank you!” Mary said brightly.

They could have been complimenting each other’s shoes.

They caught up with Molly who was speaking to the Eye’s manager. Upon seeing them, the manager explained he didn’t call the police because he recognized John and Sherlock from the telly and he was a huge fan of the blog. Didn’t seem right when all it seemed was they were having a bit of fun. It wouldn’t have been a problem to let them ride all night, actually… except every time someone tried to ride with them, Sherlock would tell them their life stories.

Four people had left the ride in tears already. One threatened to sue. 

After losing in Rock, Paper, Scissors, Molly was the one to call and convince the boys it was time to call it a night. 

“Molly! Hi!” Lestrade said cheerily as he wobbled towards his irate fiancée. “Sorry, you’re mad, she’s mad,” Lestrade said to John and Sherlock, who were not in any better shape.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, confused. “We didn’t take you to a gentleman’s club. We were going to,” Sherlock explained to Molly, whose face got redder and redder with rage as he nattered on: “Ran out of time, actually, since we’ve been up there in the spinning thingy for the past… well, however long it took to finish John’s flask.” 

“Sher up, Shutlock,” John slurred.

Molly swallowed her ire and said to Lestrade “Let’s just get you home, shall we Greg?”

“OK, Molly, my Molly, I love you, d’you know that?” He put his hand on her belly. “The both of you, I love both of you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth. Both John and Violet immediately bellowed “NO.”

Sherlock shut his mouth, focused on staying upright and not vomiting.

Molly, despite herself, had softened. She patted Lestrade’s hand, the one resting on her baby bump. “Yes, I know. Come Greg, let’s go home,” she helped Lestrade totter off, deciding to hail a cab instead of trying to squeeze everyone into Mary’s tiny car. 

Meanwhile Mary was tending to John. Weaving on his feet, John said to his wife, “I’m gonna regret all of tonight’s decisions ‘morrow, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Mary said as she put her arms around John.

“You’re never gonna lemme forget this, are you?”

“No.”

“It’s Sherlock’s fault…”

“I know,” Mary led John to the car.

Sherlock looked at Violet with bleary eyes.

Violet folded her arms tight against her body.

“Hey…” he said, reaching for her.

She did a neat little pivot to completely avoid his touch altogether. Let him fall and face-plant onto the pavement.

“Rude…” he complained from the pavement as she walked away.

 ***

18 July 2015  
London, England  
Saturday afternoon  
3:57 PM

“That was John’s fault,” Sherlock said, eyes back on his Smartphone. “Can’t possibly imagine why Molly would be upset with _me_.”

“Oh really?”

“John was the one who ordered the shots. And brought a flask of whisky.”

“You were supposed to stay sober.”

“Addict,” he mumbled. “Sobriety is a bit of a challenge.”

“You’re a narcotics addict. You can handle alcohol.”

“When I measure exactly how much I drink within a certain timeframe, yes, I can hold my liquor. When John is dumping additional shots of vodka in my drink while I’m in the loo, then orders some sort of shot called a ‘Flaming Dragon Snot’… Not… So… Much.”

“Whose idea was it to go to the fucking Eye?”

“John’s.”

“Liar.”

“Fine, it was mine. We just lost track of time.”

“Liar.”

“Fine, we were having fun. What’s wrong with that?”

“You made a thirteen year old girl cry, that’s what!”

“She was a snotty little toerag. Served her right to be taken down a peg.”

“She was thirteen, Sherlock. ALL girls are snotty little bitches at that age!”

The cab had started slowing down. Both Sherlock and Violet looked up at the hotel.

When the cab stopped, Violet said “Let’s go over the rules again.”

“I am not a child.”

“I’m still pissed off about the fish in the bathtub, by the way.”

Sherlock blew out a pent-up breath of annoyance “Fine. I am to be polite no matter how annoying people are. I am to only indulge in one glass of champagne as it goes straight to my head. I need to call Lestrade _Greg_ instead of all the other names because I know it annoys him when I call him the incorrect name. I am not to show off. I am to keep my deductions to myself. I am to remember today is about Molly, not me.”

“OK,” Violet said, putting her sunglasses back on. “Come on, we’re really pushing our luck.”

Sherlock and Violet got out. Sherlock paid (Mycroft still hadn’t unfrozen Violet’s bank accounts out of pure spite) and stood, holding his arm out to Violet. She looped her arm through his. As if they hadn’t been arguing, as if they hadn’t just visited a crime scene and captured a murderer, as if they weren’t running dreadfully late, they elegantly strolled into the hotel like a proper couple. A nice, normal couple…

They passed a sign in the lobby that read:

Today’s Events:  
Hooper/Lestrade Wedding  
Conference Room B  
4:30 PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo.... "beginning of July" turned more into "end of July". Apologies for the late posting, but you know, real life. 
> 
> As of tonight I've got 18 rough draft chapters finished and 5 chapters have been beta'ed (I think? I'm not 100% sure, I'm sleepy!) I'm hoping to have the rough draft finished by end of August, but we'll see how that goes. I plan on posting every Sunday again. :^)
> 
> OH and in case you were wondering... 'Flaming Dragon Snot' is a thing: 
> 
> http://www.whattodrink.com/drinkrecipes/9312-flaming-dragon-snot.asp
> 
> ... and choosing that shot had NOTHING to do with the fact that I finally watched "Desolation of Smaug". Nope. Nothing to do with that at all! :^)


	2. Dainty English Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There were no murderers at Molly and Greg’s wedding.   
> Sherlock decided there was no God..."
> 
> Notes at the end.   
> Enjoy! :^)

Chapter Two: Dainty English Rose

John, holding Sherlock’s violin case and bow, paced back and forth in the service hallway, checking his watch. He felt more nervous for this wedding than he had for his own. And he had been plenty nervous for his own.

At least for this one, he didn’t have to wear a full morning coat. A smart suit sufficed.

He turned around when he heard the click-clack of high heels. Violet and Sherlock hurried towards him. Well, Violet hurried towards him, Sherlock strolled two paces behind her, completely unperturbed.

“Where’n _the hell_ have you been?” John demanded, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

“Case,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling out his mobile, scrolling.

“Case, what case? Violet,” he grabbed her arm, raising his eyebrows. “ _What case?_ ”

In her true voice, sans faux British accent, Violet hissed, “Dimmock called about the poisonings.”

“Ah no,” John groaned. “Didn’t he get the memo?”

Violet threw her arms up as if to say _Yeah I know._

“Right, whatever, you’re both here now. By the skin of your bloody teeth,” John checked his watch again. “Mary’s got everything, Mrs. Hudson collected everything you needed from 221B. Go down the hall,” John pointed. “Take a right, first door after that. All the girls are there.”

“Right,” Violet said, reverting to “Brit-speak” as she started walking down the hallway. “See you in a bit. Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” the Great Detective was leaning against the wall, eyes locked on his mobile.

“Behave yourself.”

“Mm,” he flapped his hand at her as if to say _Be gone peasant_.

Violet rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses, entrusted Sherlock to John’s supervision and hurried down the hall. Turned right and immediately found the small room the women had converted into a dressing room for the blushing bride.

“Violet!” Molly brightened, some of the tension leaving her face. “Oh good, you’re here, is Sherlock here?”

“Yes, he is and I am so sorry we are late,” Violet quickly swapped out her sunglasses for her fake eyeglasses. _Must stay in character_. “Sherlock saw a shiny object, got distracted, you know how he is, hi Mary, John said Mrs. Hudson gave you everything? Oh and who’s this?” She smiled warmly at the tiny little girl in a frilly pink dress. The child tried to hide behind Mary while she put rose petals in a little white basket decorated with pink and yellow and orange ribbons.

“Yes,” Mary put the basket down, stood aside and pushed the little girl forward. “This is Lily. She’s the daughter of one of Molly’s old school friends.”

“Say hello, Lily,” Molly said.

Lily shook her head, trying to hide behind Mary’s purple skirts again. 

“Oh that’s OK,” Molly held her arms out. “Meeting new people can be a bit scary. Come here.” 

The little girl approached her but stopped abruptly. “Mummy said I can’t crumple your dress.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, come here,” Molly stretched her arms out wider. “I want loads of crumples in my dress today.”

Violet and Mary caught the other’s eye and had a silent conversation as Molly gave her flower girl a cuddle. _She is going to be such a good mother…_

Then Mary quickly looked away, turning her back for just a few seconds to pull herself together. Violet felt desperately sorry for her. John too. John had told her that he and Mary had lost a baby, but it was Sherlock who provided the awful details. Mary’s blood pressure had sky-rocketed to unhealthy levels for a pregnant woman shortly after Sherlock’s four-minute exile. After Moriarty’s mocking picture appeared on every screen in England.

Violet guessed that the stress of Moriarty’s return on top of the burden of her lies and double-life had finally been too much.

The cramping and bleeding had started on the car ride back to London. Then her daughter was delivered only hours later at St. Bart’s… two months too early and too hard and too fast, nearly ripping Mary apart in the process. Comatose, Mary had been unaware an infection had taken her little girl’s underdeveloped lungs hostage.

She never even got to hold her once.

Violet still didn’t know what they had named the child and didn’t have the heart to ask.

“Yes, so,” Mary turned back to Violet, holding a brown paper bag, recovered more or less. “This is everything Mrs. Hudson gave me. Your sheet music and Sherlock’s sheet music to the waltz he wrote for Greg and Molly. She kept the actual gift you bought with her. She figured it would be just as easy for her to deliver two gifts  as one.”

“Bless you Mrs. Hudson,” Violet breathed in relief. “And you too, Mary, thank you.”

“You get out there,” Mary checked her watch. “You can leave your handbag here. They gave me a key so I can lock the room up during the actual ceremony.”

Mary was Molly’s personal attendant. Lily’s mother was her matron-of-honor. Lestrade’s brother was his best man and that was it for the wedding party. Molly and Greg’s wedding was not as grand as Mary and John’s. Both decided not only did they need to save for the coming baby but also to purchase a larger flat or even a proper house when they outgrew Lestrade’s former bachelor pad… which looked less and less like a bachelor pad these days.

Violet and Sherlock were on music detail.

Everyone decided it would be best to make sure Sherlock did not have an opportunity to make any sort of speech. Any opportunity. At all.

John had the honor of giving Molly away since her own father had passed away years ago.

“Here,” he said, handing Sherlock his violin case and bow when Violet had disappeared around the corner to find Molly. “And come with me, I need to pin your boutonnière on your lapel.”

“Oh, people will _talk_ , John.”

“Not funny.”

“Does that make me your date? Dear me, how does Mary feel about that?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“You know, Mary and Violet WOULD make a looooooooovely couple. They could go assassinate terrorists together then go shoe-shopping and be home in time for tea.”

“ _Shut up Sherlock_!” 

While Sherlock grinned evilly, John led him to the small room where the men had set up shop to dress and prepare for The Big Day. It was a glorified broom cupboard really. A very _very_ small table had been set up where one lonely yellow rose boutonnière remained.

After John pinned the flower to Sherlock’s chest (after threatening him with impalement if he cracked one stupid joke about it), he leaned against the wall, watching Sherlock take the violin out of its case, resting it on his shoulder. It always amazed him how that complicated contraption made from wood and wire looked like a natural part of Sherlock’s body.

As Sherlock touched the bow to the strings, beginning the fusty process of tuning, John asked “Shall we go over the rules of today, Sherlock?”

“Violet and I already discussed them, thank you very much,” Sherlock frowned, not hearing what he wanted from his instrument. He put the bow down, fiddled with the tuning pegs. He put the violin back on his shoulder, lowering his face again onto the black chin-rest. He drew the bow across the strings against, grunting in approval this time.

“Good,” John said. “So you won’t mind running them past me again, will you?”

“Do you want me to play at Molly’s wedding with an out-of-tune violin?” Sherlock shot John an irritated look.

“Sherlock…”

“FINE,” Sherlock held the violin and bow at his sides. “I am to be polite no matter how annoying people are. I am to only indulge in one glass of champagne as it goes straight to my head. I need to call Lestrade _Greg_ instead of all the other names because I know it annoys him when I call him the incorrect name. I am not to show off. I am to keep my deductions to myself. I am to remember today is about Molly, not me. Now, may I?” He held the bow and violin out to John.

“Go ahead,” John said, still leaning against the wall, watching him finish tuning the violin. When it appeared the violin sounded as it should, John asked “You OK with all of this?”

“Playing for Molly and Garfield. Of course I am.”

“Sherlock…”

“Joking, John. Molly and _Greg_.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Sherlock played a few bars of Pachebel’s _Canon in D_.  “Insipid song,” he muttered. “Overdone.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said sternly. “Stop ignoring me.”

“God, you really _do_ sound like a date. A boring one.”

“I will hit you.”

“No. You won’t. Molly won’t like it if I’m bleeding in her wedding pictures.”

“Stop hiding behind that ruddy violin. I’m serious. You OK? With all of this?”

“Leave it alone, John.”

“No.”

“What does it matter if I’m _OK_ with it or not?” Sherlock spat. Feeling himself losing control, he closed his eyes and willed himself not to smack John in the face with his bow. “It’s done. Molly made her decision. Leave It Alone.”

“Sherlock. Please,” John kept his voice low and calm.” You know I know. It’s me. Talk to me.”

Now Sherlock leaned against the other wall, looking at the ceiling.

While Violet still pretended not to know the truth, John didn’t have that luxury. The day Sherlock had gotten himself abducted; an old man with hair resembling a silvery lion’s mane came to John for a routine physical. Turned out, the old man had been stalking John for quite some time. Also turned out he was in league with Moriarty and his syndicate of consulting criminals.

He had made some pointed comments about the potential paternity of Molly Hooper’s baby.

While Sherlock had been recovering from his ordeal, John had all but ordered Lestrade to lie and tell everyone he’d reconciled one full month earlier with Molly and to claim the child was his. When Sherlock more or less was himself after the horrific withdrawal from all the drugs that had been injected into his body, John told him about the old man and what he had said about Molly.

Sherlock had simply nodded, said nothing. Had said nothing about it for the past two, nearly three months.

“Afraid I’m going to offer an objection when the officiant says ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace?’ That I’ll cause a scene? Ruin Molly’s big day?”

“No,” John said. “You’ve taught me to observe instead of just see. I observe that this, the elephant in the room, is eating you alive.”

“And you thought _now_ would be the most opportune time to discuss this?”

“Well,” John’s lips quirked up. “Yeah.”

“John,” Sherlock looked down at the floor now. “Truly. It does not matter if I’m at peace with her decision or not. It’s the best decision for now. Look what they did to Violet and she’s just my imaginary girlfriend.” He twitched the bow in his hand as John glared at him. “Oh, alright, I can feel you weighing judgment on me. She’s my _friend_. Happy?”

“That is a bit better, yeah,” John said while thinking _Baby steps_ …

Sherlock lifted his head, locking his eyes on John’s. Even after all these years, Sherlock could still catch him off-guard with one of his piercing looks. Those ever changing irises, blue-green-gold, still unnerved him from time to time, making him feel like a specimen under a microscope. 

“Can you imagine what they would do to a child, John?”

“I don’t want to,” John admitted.

“Neither do I,” Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s. “That is why his last name will be Lestrade. So when I say Leave It Alone, it is not for lack of concern or caring on my part. Indeed, you need to Leave It Alone _because_ of my concern and caring. I must think of that child as Molly and Greg’s. Not mine. He can’t ever be mine. Do you understand? _It’s not safe for him to be mine_.” His eyes softened, the blue becoming the dominant color. “Please tell me you understand John.”

“I do,” John said. “Just… you know… don’t forget. I’m your friend. I’m here.”

“I never forget,” Sherlock looked at his shoes. “You better go collect the bride. It’s time.”

He said that last bit as flatly as if he said that to the guard collecting a death row inmate.

“Right,” John said, wishing he had the right words to say to make this better for him.

But there weren’t any. Not really. So he just nodded at Sherlock, said “You better get in there, Violet’s probably waiting,” and left to fetch Molly.  

He had been delighted and touched when Molly asked him to walk her down the aisle. Although to be honest, Sherlock and Mary were not the only ones struggling with Molly’s pregnancy. It had been on the tip of his tongue to point out to Sherlock at least he would have a living child, even if he couldn’t acknowledge him.

His two day old daughter haunted him at the most inopportune times.

_Guess I need to remind myself about the rules too_ , he told himself sternly. _Today is about Molly and Greg. They deserve to be happy and have a good day, a great day. Don’t ruin this for them by becoming mired in your own grief or fretting over Sherlock._

Once John had left, Sherlock, however, merely sighed, rolled his eyes over John’s foolish sentimental concerns. He shook his head then ran his hand over his hair, thanking God that it had mostly grown back out. Not as shaggy as it usually was, but at least he no longer looked like he had mange or cancer.

While he had been a guest of Jack Woodley and the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase,_ Jack had thought it would be amusing to chop his hair off and put the curls in a box for John and Violet to find.

This had been after Jack jabbed a needle into his neck, pumping him full of cocaine and heroin.

Such a good host. 

He sauntered out of the little room, hoping to find Lestrade. Take the mickey out of him before he walked down the aisle. That would be entertaining and who knows… maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss.

After all, there had been an attempted murder at John’s wedding. _That_ had been fun.

He hummed under his breath, tucking his violin under his arm. But before he could find Lestrade, he noticed a plump short woman with fading reddish hair wearing the most hideous dress imaginable with an equally dreadful hat. A normal person might have assumed the woman was Molly’s mother.

But Sherlock correctly deduced the roly-poly lady was Molly’s aunt. _Obvious, if you pay attention… wait, why is she walking towards me… oh…_ bollocks.

“Oh, you must be Mr. Holmes, Molly’s friend, the violinist. She’s spoken of you, said you’re a detective too? I’m her aunt Matilda. Matilda Hooper, but everyone just calls me Aunt Tildy. Now I’m charge of lining everyone up, so you come with me. We want you and the pianist to walk in together. She’s your girlfriend, correct?”

Sherlock suppressed an eye roll. He really hated that word. _Girlfriend_. He and Violet were both thirty-nine years old. Ridiculous, really. A man his age calling a woman her age _girlfriend_.

But what else was there? _Woman-friend? Paramour? Significant Other?_ _No. No. And no._

_Partner? No. Confusing. John is my partner…_

_Better Half? No. No one is_ better _than me…_

_Soul-mate_? _Ugh_.

“Yes,” he said tersely, remembering the rules. _Be polite no matter how annoying people are…_

“And what is she called?”

“Miss Smith.”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Since March…”

“How lovely! Maybe a year from now, it will be you and her going down this same road!” She gave him a wink and a nudge in the ribs.

_If there is a God, please let Him save me from drowning in all this emotional slop_ , he silently begged as he let Aunt Tildy lead him to where he was to wait for Violet. _Or at least send me a murder… you were kind enough to dispatch a potential murderer to John’s wedding…_

While Sherlock suffered the prattling of Molly’s spinster aunt, Violet and Mary helped Molly make final adjustments to her veil. After Mary made one final tweak, the matron-of-honor and another one of Molly’s aunts (wearing a dress  equally hideous as Aunt Tildy’s) entered with John right behind them…

… but no one noticed John because he was so much shorter than the women he stood behind.

_This is charming_ … he checked his watch. Five minutes behind schedule… 

“Molly, we found the violinist, is that the pianist?” the matron-of-honor tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice. Her gown was a bright, cheery yellow, a surprisingly flattering color on the woman. Molly was a considerate bride.  

“Yes, I am,” Violet said calmly.

“We are running very late,” the matron-of-honor said pointedly, as if it was all Violet’s fault. She then snapped at the flower girl, “Lily, what did I tell you about Molly’s dress? Come here at once before you get your grubby fingers all over it!”

_Bitch_ Violet thought as the sad little flower girl stood next to her mother.

Molly vainly tried to smooth things over, “Oh, Nat, Lily’s just fine, truly, I don’t mind. Uh… well, Violet, this is Natalie, we’ve been friends since primary school,” Molly made introductions. “Natalie, this is Violet, Sherlock’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes? The mad detective Molly’s always going on about? Aren’t you lucky?” Natalie said in that exquisitely British way indicating she felt the exact opposite of what she said but was far too polite to actually say so.

John scowled… behind the women, who blocked the doorway.

“Oh yes, I know,” Violet purred, well-schooled on female treachery. “After all, as they say, you can always judge the measure of a man by the measure of his _feet_.” She gave Natalie a bitchy little smile while Mary sniggered, Lily looked confused, the other aunt looked scandalized and Molly blushed, her hand unconsciously running over her belly.

“Yes, well, erm,” the other aunt daintily cleared her throat. “Your mother is on her way. Wants a word before you walk down the aisle. And, well, guests _are_ starting to arrive.”

“That’s my cue,” Violet said. “See you in a bit,” she smiled warmly at the bride.

“OK,” Molly gave her a bright smile but then it trembled a little. “Oh my God, this is really happening…”

Violet hurried over, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ll be brilliant. You look stunning.”

John cleared his throat. Natalie and the other aunt cleared room for him. “Didn’t see you standing there,” Natalie said unabashedly.

“No kidding,” John said dryly. “Violet, you better go. Sherlock’s possibly unsupervised.”

“Oh God. Right, excuse me,” and Violet dashed out of the room as quickly as possible on her ridiculous high heeled shoes.

“Auntie Ethel, Natalie, this is my good friend John Watson. He’s a doctor. He’s Mary’s husband,” Molly said, shifting in her seat. The baby would choose now to start kicking. _Stubborn boy. Like his father, wants to be center of attention_ she thought as she rubbed her belly again.

John said his hellos and with Mary’s assistance, helped shoo the women out of the room. Mary picked up Molly’s bouquet, a cheerful cluster of Gerber daisies in every color possible. She was about to hand it to her when there was a small cough behind them.

John and Mary turned around. This was Molly’s mother. A slender, short woman who had the exact same eyes and nose as Molly but her hair was much darker than Molly’s, brunette almost with only hints of the auburn Molly had inherited. And much shorter, cropped in a neat pixie cut that surprisingly worked for the older woman. Her dress was also lovely, simple, knee-length and a very flattering emerald color. She held her hat in her gloved hands. “Everyone is ready and waiting for you, darling.”

“Oh…” Molly swallowed. “It’s time, this… this is really happening,” she said again, awkwardly sliding off her seat. “Do… do I look OK?”

She asked everyone in the room, but her eyes were locked onto her mother’s.

Mary sidled up to John and put her free hand into his. He squeezed gently.

Molly smiled more widely, as she tended to do when she felt nervous. Her eyes became wet and she started blinking very rapidly. “I mean… I don’t look too fat, do I? Only like a hippo and not a killer whale or anything,” she tried to lighten the mood.

Her mother tilted her head and smiled. Crossed over to her daughter, cupped her cheek in her hand. “Don’t be silly, you’re beautiful.” Her other hand reached up to touch Molly’s other cheek. “Your father would have been so proud of you, Molls. He would have liked Greg too. Now, don’t weep, you don’t want to muss your make-up.” She wiped the tears off her daughter’s face before they could do too much damage.

John thought he might possibly shed a tear or two and Mary was definitely sniffling next to him. “Oh, look at the lot of us, being silly,” Mary burst out, smiling brightly while dabbing her eyes with her fingers. “It’s your wedding day, Molly. No more tears. Only smiles.” She held the bouquet out to Mrs. Hooper. Mother gave the flowers to daughter and then pulled the gauzy veil down over Molly’s face.

John cleared his throat again; still worried he might yet weep. He crooked his arm out and Molly placed her free hand through it.

”Come along, Mrs. Lestrade,” he whispered, grinning.

She lit up when he called her that. Like fireworks, fairy lights and a thousand candles all lit up all at once. Now that she started smiling, she couldn’t stop.

As John and Molly got closer to the hall, they could hear piano music drifting out the open doors.

Violet and Sherlock were already in the small conference hall, Violet seated at the piano, an upright loaner wheeled in for the occasion. She had pulled the brim of her dainty little hat further down and had taken an extra precaution and had pulled the tiny little netted veil over her eyes.

Wouldn’t do for someone in her position to be recognized… or photographed.

Sherlock hovered slightly behind her, listening and watching… and blocking her from the photographer as he took candid shots while the guests milled in. 

While they rehearsed their duets for the wedding in the prior weeks, Sherlock had been mildly impressed by her proficiency. She was no concert pianist of course, and she was playing dull, vanilla pieces to be sure. Right now, she had started playing _Clair de Lune_ , the last piece in her repertoire, before the Grand Procession.

But he could tell, observing her relaxed face, the fluid motion of her arms and hands and fingers, that she not only enjoyed playing, she missed it.

_The music_ she had said to John a long time ago. _Nobody really knows where that came from so that’s completely mine…_

He looked around the hall. It was a modest sized hall, but it seemed to be bursting at the seams. John would call that a Good Thing. Sherlock knew because it would make Lestrade and Molly feel loved that  so many people came for their Special Day.

Sherlock thought it was good because he could engage in his favorite activity ever: People Watching.

_Might spot a murderer…_ his eyes sparkled with delight as he scanned the crowds, watching, observing, deducing, remembering, logging all the outlandish hats, the uncomfortable-looking dresses, the off-the-rack suits, the ugly neckties…

He didn’t like all the flowers though. He didn’t have allergies, but every single sense he possessed was hypersensitive. Through the years he learned to hone his powerful vision and filter out unnecessary noise (which usually consisted of people talking). Since he presented himself as aloof and cold, people didn’t go out of their way to touch him…

Smells though…. Even the tiny rose on his lapel  made him crinkle his nose in disdain. Smells could still send him through the roof.

Especially women’s perfume.

He had observed Violet never wore scent once  she had moved in with him. She had been wearing perfume the day he met her, of course. But never again since.

She attempted to be a considerate flat-mate.

Except when her damnable dog tried to eat his koi. Then she had just been unreasonable. 

_Women…_

His eyes roved, taking everything in, knowing if Molly asked, he could recount to her everything that happened in this room exactly… right down to the look on Lestrade’s face when he saw her in her wedding gown… _oh_ …

His heart dropped. All the way down to his feet.

_This is really happening…_

Violet had just finished _Clair de Lune._ Everyone hushed, the only sounds the rustlings of programs and children too small to understand it was time to be quiet.

“Sherlock,” Violet whispered as the officiant entered through a side entrance.

“Right,” he breathed. He had been distracted by Molly’s two aunts, Tildy and Ethel. They were so garishly dressed, so obviously awful women, they were fascinating. He had already deduced that Tildy had gone through lovers like lavatory paper when she was younger, until her looks fled from her abhorrent personality. He had been working on Ethel…  

Sherlock lifted the violin up upon his shoulder, poised the bow over the strings, waiting for Violet’s cue.

Under her breath, she counted out the beat and then began playing “Canon in D”.

When Sherlock started playing his part, Lestrade, wearing a nice black suit and a yellow tie matching the matron-of-honor’s-dress, entered with Molly’s mother on his arm. Poor man, he looked like he needed either a strong drink or a cigarette. Or both. Sherlock knew Lestrade wore least two nicotine patches on his arms.

He kissed Mrs. Hooper on her cheek when he reached her seat, then stood next to the officiant, hands clasped, looking nervous and excited. But mostly nervous. Sherlock couldn’t work that out; this was his second go-round after all…

_Better be your last_ he warned Lestrade internally. _If you hurt Molly Hooper… well, I suppose I’ll have to get in queue…_ He recalled seeing all of Molly’s brothers enter the hall. All four of them. Each one of her brothers was a hulking, strapping, intimidating man. All four of them looked woefully out of place not to mention uncomfortable in their suits and pink neckties.

He continued to play his violin in tandem with Violet’s piano as Lestrade’s brother, a shorter, squatter, younger version of Greg, led Natalie down the aisle.

He noticed Natalie’s eyes flick down then back up when she passed him by. _Why did she look at my feet????_

He closed his eyes when he heard the collective ooh’s and aww’s as the little children trussed up in frilly clothes toddled down the aisle.

The boy, Lily’s brother, carried an empty pillow because no one in their right mind would trust a child with a diamond ring. Good thing too, because instead of carrying it like he was supposed to, he clutched the pillow like a teddy bear. Lily, with a somber look on her face, took her job very seriously. She grabbed fistfuls of rose petals, then dropped them in front of her, then grabbed another fistful and dropped them again, instead of scattering them. The crowd giggled.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, grateful for the cue from the audience.

The flower girl and the ring-bearer always preceded the bride.

He didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to be in the front row for this particular show.

Didn’t want to see John, in his best suit, escorting Molly down the aisle.

Didn’t want to see Molly in a wedding gown with her hair specially styled just for today. He wanted her in her lab coat, waiting for him in the morgue, hair pulled back in a pony-tail.

Didn’t want to see how much bigger her baby bump had gotten.

He had successfully avoided her socially since the disastrous stag party. Fortunately John had gotten him too drunk to really notice how her belly had grown. Her lab coats had mostly concealed the pregnancy… until now, of course. She was due in October. Three months to go…

He wanted the burning sensation in his chest to stop, wanted _today_ to stop… being here, at Molly Hooper’s wedding hurt worse than being at John’s…

But, master of control, disparager of sentiment, he played his part of _Canon in D_ flawlessly. After Sherlock and Violet finished their piece, Sherlock sat down next to Violet on the piano bench, his face unreadable, as usual.

When the officiant intoned, “Who giveth this woman away?” John said gruffly, “I do and so does her mother.”

Lestrade had tears in his eyes as he gazed down at Molly.

If Sherlock didn’t already feel like he had a raging case of heartburn, he may have vomited from all the sentiment. He did allow himself a quick eye roll, which earned him a discreet  elbow in the ribs from Violet.

The officiant gestured towards John. He smiled at Molly, lifted her veil, kissed her cheek, took her hand then placed it into Lestrade’s. John then walked around the bride and groom to stand next to Lestrade’s brother.

Sherlock let his eyes roam through the hall, anywhere, everywhere so he wouldn’t have to look at Molly. Look at her in her pretty ivory empire-cut dress, a style more forgiving to a pregnant woman as well as more comfortable. Lace, not satin. A yellow sash around her upper waist, just above the baby bump. Tiny subtle sequins sewed here and there on the gown. Not so many so they were a distraction, just enough so when the light hit her right, she twinkled like starlight.

He felt Violet leaning into him. _Fake_ , he thought, irritated. But they needed to play their respective roles in the farce entitled The Happy Couple. The Sociopath and Ice Queen. How quaint. Maybe together they could  produce socially awkward little snow-babies together, ha ha.

_Going down this same road indeed... Vomit._

He felt her hand next to his. _Fake_. He huffed, still irritated, knowing he’d  eventually have to hold her hand, to keep Putting On the Show.

He felt her pinkie linking around his. Some of the burning feeling in his chest dissipated.

_Real_. 

Carefully, since his hands were so much larger than hers, he curled his pinkie around hers. She looked up at him just as he looked down at her. She smiled then rested her head lightly against his shoulder. _Real_.

Violet Smith was indeed his imaginary girlfriend. But Violet Hunter really was his friend. 

It was nice, really. Having another friend. He never thought he’d have even one.

Now he had six.

Well, seven if you counted the dog… which, he did. He liked Gladstone. The murderous mutt made him happy… except when he ate his koi fish, of course.

His mind drifted as two of his friends said their vows. He knew Violet had determined the paternity of Molly’s baby and had elected  mercifully to keep her mouth shut, for now. Sherlock believed that criminal profiling was a fuzzy, impractical skill set at best, dependant on emotional inductions rather than scientific deductions. But he also had to admit she could read most people quite accurately. Maybe she couldn’t tell if someone owned three Corgis or had a hot date lined up just by looking at their shoes. But she could tell if someone was lying, stalling, guilty or had murder in their hearts.

She could have given Charles Augustus Magnussen a run for his money when it came to finding and pushing pressure points. She would have eventually lost, of course, but she would have gone down fighting and would have probably drawn blood in the process.

She was a fighter, Violet.

After an ugly, brutal argument where Sherlock and Violet raked each other over the coals, both agreed that since they each had the power to hurt the other very badly, they each needed to be a bit careful with the other. It was one thing to get into a row over oversized goldfish (which Sherlock still believed she had completely overreacted), it was quite another to delve into the other’s personal life.

Violet not only had been an effective interrogator when she was still employed by the FBI, but a thorough and fastidious investigator. She did her research. She knew far too much about Sherlock and his family. Things Sherlock tried to, wanted to delete. 

She knew just how vile and sadistic Lord Cullen-Culpepper, the Earl of Winchester really was.

She knew he had terrorized and ritualistically brutalized Sherlock when he had been a little boy. She knew the Earl, while not the only reason, was one of the big reasons  Sherlock shied away from intimate relationships, physical and emotional.

And she knew what he had done to escape the Earl’s advances, to make him _stop_.

And she knew Mycroft had done nothing to stop what the Earl was doing, even told Sherlock to keep the abuse a secret. That part she hadn’t sorted out yet, why Mycroft had allowed such atrocities to happen to his little brother. In the meantime, she and Sherlock had come to an agreement: if it didn’t affect her safety, she didn’t need to know about his personal life.

So, for now, Molly’s pregnancy didn’t affect Violet’s safety. Was not going to jeopardize their cover story... for the moment at any rate. That didn’t mean she felt nothing about the situation. It just meant she wouldn’t push him to talk about it until she either felt the time was right or if something were to change and the pregnancy would affect her security.

Judging from the supremely happy look on Lestrade’s face as he slid the wedding band onto Molly’s finger, Sherlock doubted there would be any risk of that. Lestrade had endured a three hour telephone call from his ex-wife when he willingly began the rumor that he and Molly had started their relationship up again in January, not February, and the baby was his. “Screamed at me for three straight hours, she did,” Lestrade had told John and Sherlock before they had gotten good and drunk at the stag party. “On and on she screeched how I traded her in for a newer model, we hadn’t even been divorced for a month yet and I’ve gone and knocked up a teenager,” Lestrade then grinned. “Might have only been a two hour ordeal if I hadn’t mentioned I traded _up_ when I got with Molly.”  

Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that, other than John of course, Lestrade was the best man to raise his son. Similar to John, Lestrade was a good man, a kind and patient man. Lestrade would do all the fatherly things Sherlock would find distasteful and boring. Parent-student conferences. Play dates. Soccer meets. Children’s films. School concerts. Bedtime stories. Science projects…

… _that was a lie, at least for the last two items_ , Sherlock admitted to himself, starting to feel low again as the officiant read some trite nonsense about the sanctity and bonds of marriage. _I would have liked to participate in the last two… you can never start too young to teach science and my father used to read stories to me, he used to do voices… made me love to read…_

_I know I would not be a great father… but I don’t think I would be an_ awful _father either. But I’ll never have the chance to prove her wrong… which is for the best, must stop dwelling on this…_

He felt Violet’s fingers linking through all of his now, giving a gentle squeeze. _Real_.

“It’s almost over,” she breathed into his ear.

Yes, it was nice having another friend. Since John was so far away, standing next to Lestrade’s brother, watching two lives becoming one, it was a comfort to have someone else pick him up when he felt very down indeed. Someone standing at the bottom of the building as he fell…

_You count Molly Lestrade_ he thought as everyone started cheering and clapping as the officiant pronounced the bride and groom “husband and wife.”

Violet nudged him again, only because they needed to play the recessional song. Something jaunty and jolly, to signify two lives had  indeed become one and to notify everyone in attendance to depart the hall and meet the bride and groom in the hotel bar. The hotel staff needed to quickly set up the tables and move the chairs to the tables for the dinner while the DJ set up for his equipment for the dance afterwards.

The piano Sherlock needed for the first dance. While he had been composing, he discovered to his irritation that a solo violin just didn’t sound right for what he wanted to play for the first dance. The piano and violin combination however, had been perfect.

Sherlock let loose a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding when he finished the last note of the song with a flourish. The hall was nearly empty now. Violet Smith looked up at him and said, “Well done, Mr. Holmes,” as she adjusted her hat. 

“Play something for me.”

“What?”

“Just to wash the treacle out of my ears,” he said as he put his violin back in its case. 

“I only have sheet music for the wedding songs. I’m a bit rusty playing from memory. ”

“Obviously, but I’m desperate.”

“You say the most complimentary things,” Violet grumbled, plopping back down on the bench, acting more _Hunter_ than _Smith_. But she bit her lip, thought for a moment, muttered “I think I remember most of this…” and launched into Beethoven’s _Presto Agitato_.

He grinned.

_Perfect_.

**

There were no murderers at Molly and Greg’s wedding.

Sherlock decided there was no God.

Dinner had been eaten, the cake had been cut (Lestrade had playfully swiped a bit of frosting onto Molly’s nose, much to the amusement of the guests) and the hotel staff hustled to move the tables and chairs out of the way for the dance while the drunk and happy guests went back to the bar to get drunker and happier.

Apparently, Molly, Sherlock and Violet were the only ones not imbibing. Sherlock had been ordered to stay on the wagon. And for someone in Violet’s position, hiding in plain sight, it would not do to get intoxicated and lose control. Or make herself a target.

And  Molly… well… obvious.

When the DJ asked Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade to please come onto the dance floor, Violet sat back down at the piano bench. Sherlock had already had his violin ready.

Since everyone conspired to make sure Sherlock had no opportunity to speak at the wedding, Violet was the one who announced he had written this piece for the happy couple. Everyone applauded politely.

Neither Greg nor Molly knew how to waltz, but it didn’t matter. They moved clumsily around the dance floor, laughing, eyes only for each other.

John reached for Mary’s hand, intertwined his fingers with hers as he watched his friend play. The waltz was nothing like the one Sherlock had written for them. It was lighter, brighter. It made John think of butterflies flitting around an open meadow. The music was innocent and pure… almost childlike…

_… of course it was_ John realized, his heart sinking a little. _He didn’t write this for Molly and Greg. He wrote this for his child. This isn’t a waltz. It’s a lullaby._

_He’s not OK with this…_

“You OK?” his wife whispered to him.

He kissed her temple; thanking God she was kind enough to wear flat heels. “Yeah,” he said “You?”

She nodded, but her lips were pursed tightly together, like she did whenever she tried to stave off tears. “Going to need another drink after this,” she admitted in a whisper. It had been harder than she thought, helping Molly today…

After all, Mary had been pregnant at her wedding too.

“Yeah, me too,” he confessed.

As he had walked Molly down the aisle, it hit him like a pile of bricks he would never walk his own daughter down the aisle.

Her tiny ghost flitted around everywhere today apparently.

“Let’s get plastered tonight.”

“Oh yes, let’s,” Mary agreed fervently, letting go of John’s hand to applaud with everyone else when Sherlock and Violet’s duet was complete.

Lestrade wrung Sherlock’s hand then pulled him into a hug. Awkwardly, Sherlock patted him on the back, shooting Violet a pleading look to save him.

Violet rose from her piano bench, smiling at the detective-inspector, hiding her discomfort as Lestrade let Sherlock go to hug her.

He had heard her true voice once. The first time was well over four years ago when she called to let him know Sally Donovan had been withholding evidence that would have proved Jim Moriarty was real and would have vindicated Sherlock. Possibly could have even saved him from The Fall.

She had also called him last March to tip him off about the bombing of a surgery in a very poor part of London that had inevitably brought Sherlock and John into her life. She had used her faux British accent for that call, never dreaming Lestrade would be a part of the inner circle now surrounding her.

Lestrade however was not paying one bit of attention to Violet’s voice. Besides, he considered himself off the clock tonight. He hugged Violet and thanked her profusely for helping make this the best day of his life.

While Lestrade gushed to Violet, Molly stood in front of Sherlock, a shy smile on her face.

“Thank you,” she said in a soft, small voice. “That was so lovely.”

Sherlock could tell she wanted to hug him so he took preemptive steps to prevent that.

“Congratulations, Molly Lestrade,” he intoned, leaning over her, touching his cool lips to her warm cheek. “You deserve to be happy,” he breathed into her ear. “All three of you…”

“Sherlock…” Molly’s voice quavered.

“Excuse me,” he darted away from the bride, under the pretense of putting his violin away.

The DJ asked for another round of applause for the violinist and the pianist, then asked everyone to join the bride and groom on the dance floor. Some horrible Eighties pop song came full of bass  and electronic noise. Everyone seemed to recognize the song and nearly charged the dance floor. Pink, purple and blue lights flashed.

Even Mrs. Hudson quickly chugged whatever horrible fizzy pink cocktail she had been nursing and joined the crowd on the dance floor.

“D’you mind?” one of Molly’s beefy cousins barked into Sherlock’s ear as he snapped his violin case shut. He made Molly’s brothers look positively tiny.

“Do I mind what? That you haven’t brushed your teeth since the night before last?” he shouted irritably. The noise pounded in his ears. Whatever the DJ was playing, it wasn’t _music_.

He’d rather be forced to play _Canon in D_ again.  

“Your girl? D’you mind if I take her out for a spin on the dance floor?” the cousin yelled at Sherlock while pointing at Violet. “Wife came down with a migraine, I’m here solo.”

“I’m not a car,” Violet said frostily but no one heard her over the thumping bass.

Sherlock shrugged and Molly’s cousin said “Thanks” or “Cheers” or “Beers” or something along those lines and pulled Violet out onto the dance floor. Of course Sherlock knew he had been lying about his wife having a migraine, easy to deduce he and the wife had split…

… plus it would be amusing to watch Violet make mincemeat of the clod.

Although he thought he may have miscalculated while he watched Molly’s cousin whisper something into Violet’s ear as he ran his hand down… down… down her back… his fingers stretching towards forbidden territory, while continuing to whisper in her ear...

Sherlock took a step forward but then observed Violet stomping then grinding her pointed high heel into the top of his foot.

No one heard the cad yelp over the dreadful “music.”

Spying John and Mary, Violet wriggled through the drunk and happy guests to reach them. “May I cut in?” she asked Mary as she escaped Molly’s ill-mannered cousin, who limped off, muttering about the perfidies of women and how only a psychopath would be with another psychopath...

“’Course, I’ll get more drinks,” Mary said, relinquishing John to Violet.

“Having fun?” John yelled into her ear as Mary wove her way between the dancers and drinkers to leave the dance floor.

“Loads,” Violet lied as John took her hand and playfully twirled her around the dance floor. She stumbled in her heels and John laughed.  “Are you and Mary having a good time?”

“Oh yeah. We’re getting smashed tonight,” John announced.

“Jealous,” she yelled back.

“How’s Sherlock doing?”

“How do you think?” she said, looking around the crowded dance floor. “Oh shit, he’s gone. I’d thought he’d follow me out here when he saw I was going to you and Mary.”

John stopped dancing. “We better go find him.”

“No,” Violet shook her head. She yelled into John’s ear “Stay. Have fun with Mary. I’ll find him.”

Plus, she could tell John already had more than a few drinks. He would be mostly useless.

“Better hurry,” John said. “He left my wedding early. Right after… the waltz.” Worry flickered in his eyes as he blinked his eyes owlishly, struggling to sober up, remembering what happened after his wedding… “I better come with you, actually.”

Violet impulsively hugged John and yelled in his ear, “I’ve got this.”

“Your American is showing,” he yelled into her ear but he hugged her back fiercely.

Sad, really. Pathetic, actually. This foreign fugitive was more of a sister to him than his own flesh-and-blood sibling.

His conscience pricked as he escorted her off the dance floor. Four months ago he had pointed a gun at her point-blank, demanding she tell him the truth about who and what she was.

She had called him out on it though: _You’re pointing a gun at me. Put it away John, you’re not that guy._

_But I am that guy,_ John thought, loosening his tie as Violet said good-bye just as Mary came back juggling three drinks. _I’m the killer and the healer._

_Just like my wife…_  John thought as he took his drink and the drink intended for Violet. He downed both of them, then kissed Mary full on the mouth.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he growled into her ear.

“Why wait for upstairs?” Mary slid her hand up his chest. “The loo is around the corner.”

“Wicked girl,” he seized her hand and practically dragged her out of the dance hall.

Meanwhile, Violet, removing her heels, padded down the empty hotel hallway, the sound of the dance music following her. She thought about texting him, but realized that would be an exercise in futility. He wouldn’t answer.

She dropped the shoes and closed her eyes. She folded her hands, steepled them like he did when deep in thought. Her chin lightly rested on the tips of her middle fingers.

She let herself get inside his head… never a fun trip. Not really.

_If I were the Great Consulting Detective and I felt like hell, where would I go…?_

_If I was still using, I’d go score…_

_If I’m trying to stay clean… I’d go…_

“Smoke,” she said softly, opening her eyes “Then home.”

Scooping up her high-heels, she did an about-face, walking past the dance hall again and around the corner to a pair of French doors she had noticed the photographer ushering Molly and Lestrade out earlier in the day so he could get a few nice outdoor snaps while the light was still good.

She peered through the glass before throwing open the doors. Sure enough, in the middle of a fairly small, but quite pretty little courtyard, stood a tall, black-haired man, back to the door… puffing away like a damned chimney.

She opened the door and stepped out into the shadowy courtyard. After being inside in the air-conditioning all day, the July heat hit her like a slap. She left the door open, not sure if it would automatically lock behind her. She could still hear the music reverberating behind her, a slower song now. A man and a woman warbled about an endless love…

“What are you doing out here all on your own?” she asked lightly, with her British accent. Just because it looked like he was on his own, didn’t necessarily mean he was.

“What does it look like?” he exhaled a plume of smoke.

“You can’t leave me alone with those people,” she scolded him mildly.

“We are alone, Agent Hunter,” he said quietly as she walked closer to him.

“OK,” she said, dropping the accent. “You can’t leave me with those fucking people.”

He smirked. “Oh I don’t know. You seemed alright on your own in there.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. Chivalry’s definitely dead,” she crossed her arms as Sherlock turned around. “You did really good today, Sherlock.” 

“What you mean to say is ‘really well’, not ‘really good,’” he corrected her. “Why does your grammar go straight to hell when you lose the accent?”

“I’m an American,” she quipped.

“No excuse, you spent most of your childhood in Europe.”

“I’m trying to be nice and you’re making it really difficult.”

“No need,” Sherlock said, taking another drag of his cigarette. “ _Canon in D_ is not exactly a challenge for me, but it’s what Molly wanted, so,” he took another puff. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m not complimenting your violin playing and you know it,” Violet said. “Although, the waltz you wrote was… is beautiful, I meant to tell you tell you that before, when we first started practicing it for the wedding, but well… you were being kind of a jackass.”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

“It was,” Violet said, sitting down on one of the stone benches. Smoothing her dress down, she asked “Have you composed anything else?”

Sherlock sat next to Violet. “Bits and pieces, here and there. Helps me think.” 

“What were you thinking about that when you composed that?”

_My son…_ “Molly and Lestrade.”

_Liar…_ “Why did you leave?”

“I hate weddings,” he grumbled. “They are just ‘one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.’**”  


“Everyone hates weddings. The only person who likes weddings is the bride. Try again.”

“I wanted some,” Sherlock coughed a little, “fresh air.”

“Yeah,” Violet plucked the cigarette out of his hand. “Because this is so fresh,” she dropped it on the pavement. She would have ground it out with her heel, but she was barefoot. “It doesn’t take a genius to see you haven’t been your usual sunshiny self lately. I don’t need details,” she held her hand up as if to shield herself from the nasty look he just shot at her. “I’m not prying. But, you’re also being,” she held her forefinger and thumb centimeters apart from each other, “A little obvious that you’re not happy.”

“I just hate weddings,” Sherlock muttered, stomping out the dropped cig then reached into his jacket pocket, producing a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “You’re reading too much into things, my dear Violet. Sometimes,” he shook the pack and popped a cig into his mouth. “A cigar is just a cigar.”

As he lit up, she said, “Bullshit. I thought we had an agreement it was pointless to lie to each other since you can deduce me and I can profile you.”

He sighed, a gust of smoke escaping his body as he did so. “If I ask you to leave it alone, would you respect my wishes?” He finally bowed to the heat and slipped his jacket off, laying it neatly beside him on the stone bench.

She sat quietly for a moment, thinking as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. Then carefully she said “As long as no one’s safety is compromised by my  leaving it alone, whatever it is… then yes.”

“What if I told you that someone’s safety is absolutely dependent on your leaving it alone?”

“That’s different,” she said immediately. “Of course I would respect that. After all, secrets and lies are the only things keeping me alive right now.”

Sherlock nodded, puffing on his cigarette, looking up. Regrettable how the London streetlights often obscured the stars, how technology trumps nature.

He thought about the tiny sequins twinkling in the lace of Molly’s dress… how she had sparkled like stars when the light had hit her just right… how _happy_ she had looked…

Vividly, he remembered waking up in her bed last January, sheets tangled around his legs, their clothes scattered everywhere… and she hadn’t been there. Left him a note, some flimsy excuse about how she had been called to work early… but really, she just didn’t want to give him a chance to hurt her feelings… again.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry tonight sucks for you,” Violet said, interrupting his reverie.

“It wasn’t completely terrible,” Sherlock admitted. “I do love people-watching… although.” His black brows beetled together in confusion. “I did not understand why the matron-of-honor kept looking at _my feet_ every opportunity that presented itself to her.”

Violet choked then snorted with laughter. “That’s, um, my fault.” While Sherlock stared blankly at her, she attempted to explain: “She was being really mean and making me mad, and she was making fun of you, _of us_ … so I… uh… pointed out your shoe size to her, to make her jealous.”

“What does my shoe size have to do with anything?”

“Seriously? You’re going to make me explain this?” Violet covered her face with her hands, feeling her face heat up as Sherlock continued to look confounded. She forgot how naïve he could be sometimes due to his lack of… experience. Healthy, natural experience in… _that_ area, that is. “Um… there’s an old joke that the size of a man’s foot is an accurate indicator of the size of his….” She trailed off, feeling like she was thirteen instead of thirty-nine. _Penis, say penis, you are a grown woman…_

Instead she just gestured vaguely towards his crotch.

Sherlock looked down, looked up at her again then the light bulb switched on in his mind palace. “ _Oh…_ ”

“I’m sorry,” she giggled. “I couldn’t resist… she was being such a _bitch_.” 

“So… because my feet are large, she thinks I satiate your every carnal need and therefore she is jealous because her love life is either unsatisfactory or nonexistent?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“So… I should be flattered?”

“I’m really sorry,” she said, putting her hand on his arm as he squirmed, embarrassed. “But she was so petty and bossy and she was yelling at her kid for no good reason. I knew _that_ would get underneath her skin.”

“Molly needs better friends,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“She does, she has you,” Violet said, gently squeezing his arm, moving her thumb around in circles. Violet found herself treating Sherlock like a skittish horse at times. No sudden moves. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock looked away, took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose.

He didn’t pull away from her touch though.

“We can leave whenever you want to. I just have to get my purse.” She stood up, carefully putting her shoes back on, as if she was Cinderella trying on the glass slippers. “I’m surprised though, I thought you would follow me out onto the dance floor once you saw I found John and Mary.”

“Why would I follow you to the dance floor?”

“Oh Mrs. Hudson told me you loved to dance, that you were actually really good.”

_Hang Mrs. Hudson_ he thought irritably. _Leave it to her to open her big mouth_.

“That wasn’t dancing they were doing out there,” he said, grumpily. “That was just...” he waved his arms in the air. “Shaking arms about while jumping up and down.”

“Well, that’s the best I can do,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Wrong,” he said, inhaling deeply then dropping the cigarette. Stomping it out with his heel, he said, “You think you don’t know how to dance, but with your martial arts and your yoga, you do know how to make choreographed movements and you understand rhythm thanks to your limited musical training…”

“Not all of us are child prodigies.”

“You are completely capable of putting your existing skills together and mastering basic dance moves.” Sherlock stood up to his full height then bowed, extending his hand towards Violet. “You just need someone to show you.”

She didn’t take his outstretched hand right away. Her eyebrows crinkled together as she tried to figure out if he was mocking her or not. Just as Sherlock started to feel foolish for even asking, suddenly recalling how he had been inadvertently left out when everyone started pairing up at John and Mary’s wedding dance, she did finally reach for him, uncertainty still in her hazel eyes.

Just as her fingertips touched the palm of his hand, the music changed.

To some horrible hip hop song, full of drum machines, synthesized beats and an overly Auto-tuned voice spewing the filthiest lyrics imaginable. 

Violet pulled her hand away. “Oh, I think you just need to have a seizure to dance to this.”

But Sherlock had straightened, cocked his head and tapped his foot to the beat. “Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow…” he said, under his breath, right arm crooked up, left arm curved into a half-circle, as if he held an invisible woman. “A tango!” he said, delighted. 

“What?”

“Come here,” he held his right hand out to her again. “The lyrics are puerile, the instruments computerized, but this is in fact, a tango, my dear Violet” he said as she took a step closer and tentatively put her hand into his. He led her off the small cobblestone path into the neatly manicured grass.  “Now,” he said, “left hand on my shoulder, there, good. Our bodies are not quite centered, but aligned as so, a bit to the right, and close, like this,” he put his free hand on the small of her back and pushed her into him so her waist and thigh met his.

Startled, Violet jumped a little and looked up at him, blinking and tried to put a little distance between them but he pushed her back against him.“Relax. This is a contact dance, not a _dirty_ dance. Now,” he prattled happily on as he put his hand on the proper spot on her shoulder and held her other hand up in the air correctly. “The steps are quick, quick, slow, slow, quick. Very cat-like… think Sneak Sneak, Slip Behind A Tree, Sneak, alright?” He let her go and demonstrated, while Violet watched, becoming fascinated despite her misgivings.

“So… it’s kind of like when I’m circling someone in kickboxing.”

“Yes, only without all the hitting and kicking.”

“Oh, well, that’s no fun,” she grinned as she found herself back in his arms.

“Now I begin, moving to the left with my right shoulder slightly forward like this and you mirror, going backward. Step with the heel and for heaven’s sake, let me lead.”

“Fine.” she huffed.

“Soften your knees, relax, this is supposed to be fun. Ready?” when she nodded, he counted down and proceeded to step forward with his left foot, solidly on his heel, leaning into her, breathing the steps into her ear, telling her when they were about to turn.

She was terrible.

“Don’t watch your feet, watch me. Look at my face, not the ground!”

“Ouch!” she yelped when she didn’t move her feet fast enough and he trod on her toes.

“You’re not keeping up, you need to move your feet out of my way.”

“How? Your feet _are_ huge.”

“Down girl.”

Violet burst out laughing and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re letting your self-consciousness get in your way,” he told her as he playfully twirled her around like John had earlier. At least she could handle that move without tripping over her own feet.

“Let’s try this,” he pulled Violet back to him, gently removed her fake eyeglasses and tucked them in his trouser pocket. He then reached for the scarf tied around her neck. Loosening the knot, he slipped the gauzy cloth off her neck. “Close your eyes,” he told her. “Trust me,” he added when she arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

She squared her shoulders and closed her eyes, letting Sherlock tie the scarf over her eyes. Then she heard his voice, _that voice_ , in her ear, “Just follow my lead and do as I say.”

“OK,” she breathed, feeling him take her hand again and lean into her this time instead of pushing her to him.

The awful hip hop song segued into another awful hip hop song but apparently that didn’t matter to Sherlock. He counted down again and led her around the courtyard, again counting the steps for her. She did much better the second time around, but her movements were still stiff and uncertain. More like the Tin Man than a cat.

“Move your hips,” he told her as he led her through a turn.

“Down boy,” she purred then laughed. Then stumbled on her heels because she lost focus,

Sherlock caught her and helped her untie her blindfold. “Maybe I should leave the dancing to the professionals,” she shook her head, the curls starting to slip of out of her chignon.

“There was improvement,” Sherlock insisted, smoothing her hair back, out of her eyes. “The first go-around was abominable. The second… merely appalling.”

“You say the sweetest things, you know that?” she informed him.

“I merely observe,” he reminded her.

Like he observed how she hadn’t moved out of his arms.

Or how her pupils were dilated.

Or how her face was flushed.

Or how her heartbeat raced.

Or how she let him touch her hair.

Or how she shivered at his touch but it was not cold outside. 

Or how she looked into his eyes unflinchingly, without a shred of self-consciousness.

Or how she smiled… at him… nobody smiles _at him_ like that… like she was genuinely enjoying spending time with him. She was having _fun…_ with _him_ … and it didn’t involve corpses or blowtorches or chemicals or crime scenes or anything _interesting_.

They were just… dancing…

His waist pressed tightly against hers, his thigh brushing against hers as he led her around the darkened courtyard, the only light from the security lights from the hotel and whatever moonlight that could pierce through London’s polluted skies…

Her breath against his face, his cheek, his ear…her small hand in his, her breasts grazing his chest when he leaned into her…how they still stood close together, close enough that if he lowered his head just enough and if she tilted hers up ever so slightly…

_Oh…_

This could be problematic.

“Um,” Sherlock cleared his throat, took a step back, looking away from her.”We, err, should probably get back to the party. Uhh,” he looked down at the scarf in his hand, such a dainty, flimsy object in his big hand. “Right,” he looped the scarf around her neck, meaning to arrange it such so it hid the scar on her throat.

The scar Jim Moriarty gave her.

And Jim Moriarty was who Sherlock was supposed to be hunting, not wasting his precious time at wedding dances or mooning over his flat-mate.

But yet, he lingered over her, not tying her scarf like he intended. Instead he traced his fingertips down her neck, finding the scar, resting his fingers there, feeling her pulse race now.

Violet hadn’t moved nor looked away during this. She knew there was no way she could hide from him what she felt right at this moment. Instead she scanned his face intently, looking for a clue, a hint about what he thought, what he felt… the only emotions she could read in his eyes were… confusion…. and curiosity. 

_I’m in trouble_ she thought as she felt his thumb running against her chin, tilting her head up. _If he does anything, kiss me, take me to bed, anything, I won’t be able to say no... and what we have right now is already complicated… because it wouldn’t be_ Just Sex _… he’s never really dealt with what happened to him as a boy… and he wouldn’t just break my heart, he would_ crush _it… plus his brother can also have me killed with a single phone call…, but right now… oh God I just_ want _him… shit… I’m in so much trouble…_

By this point, he was cupping her face with both hands. They were impossibly close to each other again, even closer than they had been when they were dancing. She reached up and encircled his wrists with both her hands “Sherlock,” she whispered, knowing she needed to tell him to back off, that this was a Bad Idea…

But she found herself remembering… how she found him, strung out in the old candy manufacturing warehouse, strung out of his mind…

_You have very pretty eyes_ … _You have exactly twenty-seven freckles on your face_ … he had slurred while tracing his finger down her cheek. _I counted one night when I was bored…_

And then Sherlock had leaned forward and kissed her. Like a young boy kissing his first girl.

But he had been high when that happened. He wasn’t high now…

“Sherlock,” she said again as he lowered his face to hers.

“Shhh,” he breathed. “We are not alone, _Miss Smith_.” 

That was the equivalent of throwing a bucket of ice water on her.

“OK,” she said as he pressed a chaste kiss against her cheek. The Show was back on. She pressed herself into Sherlock as he wrapped his arms around her, the dainty English rose who needed protection.

“Who’s there?” Sherlock demanded loudly. “Show yourself.”

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Quote from:   
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor. The complete Sherlock Holmes (287). Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co..


	3. As I Live and Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This old quarrel again,” Sherlock bolted out of his chair. “Seven years… seven years since I saw you last and this, this is what you bring up!” he shouted. “This is why you wanted to see me. This is what made you finally contact me...”
> 
> Also, Mary overhears something quite shocking...
> 
> Happy Sunday, everyone!

Chapter Three: As I Live and Breathe

“Sherlock?” a cultivated, well-groomed voice said from the shadows. “Is that really you?”

Violet turned her head to see a man come out into the light.

Her jaw dropped.

This man was insanely, unfairly good-looking.

Tall, blonde, huge blue eyes and pouty lips, wearing an expensive suit clearly tailored just for him. He had a few smile lines and eye-crinkles, which only gave character to his otherwise smooth, pale face. ( _So unfair_ , Violet sulked slightly, knowing in a few years, she wouldn’t be able to camouflage her crow’s feet or smile lines with cosmetics. She also knew no one would call her _distinguished_ for having wrinkles either. _Fucking double-standards…_ )

But this man was _smiling_ … Smiling at _Sherlock_ … like he was a long-lost… friend?

_What the hell?_ Violet thought as the man came closer, smiling like he’d won the lottery.

“As I live and breathe, it _is_ you,” he sounded genuinely pleased, holding out his hand .

“Victor,” Sherlock, in turn, sounded genuinely surprised. He reached out and shook Victor’s proffered hand. Violet stood next to Sherlock. Remembering his role, he draped his arm over her shoulders but in the same bewildered voice, asked Victor: “What… uh, what brings you back to London?”

“Business,” Victor said, “And a bit of pleasure. The wife’s been making noises about moving back to London you see.”

“Really,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Well, or at least to one of the suburbs,” Victor admitted sheepishly. “I’m trying to sell her on the city itself, but if I can at least get to her to Chelsea, I’ll count that as a win.”

“Oh,” a bit of Sherlock’s trademark disdain slid back into his voice. “Living abroad didn’t suit you and the family much then after all, did it?”

Victor however took Sherlock’s contempt in stride. Apparently he not only knew Sherlock, but knew him well. “It was always meant to be temporary, living in America…”

_America…_ Violet felt a twinge of homesickness…

… but she didn’t know if she actually missed the United States… or the idea of it.

Victor continued talking “… but we knew we didn’t want to raise our daughter in America, especially New York,” Victor hesitated. “Did you get my email about that… I never heard back from you so I wasn’t sure…”

“I did,” Sherlock said shortly. Then as an afterthought, he added, “Congratulations.” 

“Thanks.”

“The timing was bad when you had emailed me. The ‘Crime of the Century’ and all that.”

“Oh, right,” Victor looked disconcerted. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t really… you know, dead.”

“So am I. Glad not to be dead.” 

“Sent your mum flowers and a condolences card and everything.”

“I’m sure she had enjoyed the futile effort you made to assuage her grief over the suicide of her son,” Sherlock said, “With a piece of paper and plants that would wilt and die within days.”

“Sent your dad a bottle of whisky too.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a far better gesture and one that was probably actually appreciated.”

“I had just hoped maybe you would have reached out to me when you came back?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Victor sounded aggrieved for the first time. “Thought you might have wanted to talk to an old friend after all of that.”

“Since when do I ever want to _talk_?” Sherlock asked.

Victor laughed. “Seriously? Sherlock? You never shut up.”

Sherlock allowed himself a small, sheepish grin. “Well… free time is not exactly a commodity I’ve had in excess since my return from my Great Hiatus.”

“Can you spare an old friend the time to have a drink while I’m in London?” Victor asked. “Provided the lady is willing to let you go for a few hours,” he smiled at Violet. His smile just made him look even better. He held his hand out to her. “I am so sorry. I see Sherlock’s manners are just as abhorrent as they were twenty years ago. My name is Victor Trevor.”

Violet, meanwhile, had  watched the exchange between the two men like a tennis match spectator. _An old friend?_ she thought as she shook Victor’s hand. _Sherlock doesn’t have old friends._ “Violet Smith,” she said, making sure her voice sounded warm… and British. “Always a pleasure meeting one of Sherlock’s old friends.”

“One of?” Victor laughed again “Oh you are the diplomat aren’t you? You mean _only_ old friend. We’ll have to go out to dinner sometime. When the wife’s in town. Then I can properly embarrass Sherlock about his goings-on during our uni days.”

“I assume you had to intervene to prevent him from being beaten to a pulp on a regular basis?”

Victor smiled fondly at Sherlock. “Too true, but he saved my arse a time or two as well. Would  never have passed any of my science requirements without him.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said brusquely. “We should go, there’s a wedding dance we’re meant to be attending and we might be missed so…”

“Oh, are you a guest at that wedding?” Victor jerked his thumb back at the hotel. “Looked like fun. Thought about gate-crashing. Kidding, I’m kidding,” he held his hands up in mock-surrender. “But, I’m glad I ran into you, Sherlock. Clear your diary, I do want to catch up.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, looking down.

Violet winced as his fingers suddenly dug into her arm in a death-grip.  “I’m sure we can arrange something,” Violet said, smiling to hide her pain. She patted Sherlock on his hand, trying to signal to him that he was hurting her.

He loosened his grip. “My contact information is online.”

“Oh I know,” Victor grinned. “I read your assistant’s blog. Great stuff. Really. But, ah, I feel like I may have, uh, interrupted something so I’ll be in touch, Sherlock. Miss Smith,” he bowed slightly, “Pleasure to have met you, really.”

“Thank you so much and likewise,” she smiled, inclining her head. Her “Miss Smith” demeanor always had a slight royal presence. Her beautiful manners and imperial disposition  allowed her to be accepted in polite company and yet keep people at a distance.

“Good evening, Victor,” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes lowered.

“Good night,” he said and slipped away as silently as he came.

Violet and Sherlock both let go of the breaths they had been holding, but for different reasons.

“Do I need to be worried?” Violet Hunter said softly.

“No,” Sherlock said sharply.

“Can I ask who that is?” she asked warily. “Just so I don’t stick my foot in my mouth?”

“Old friend from university,” he said curtly as he turned from her to retrieve his jacket.

“I gathered that,” Violet said testily. “Sherlock, please, I’m not _prying_. You could cut the tension with a knife between you two. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing or make an uncomfortable situation worse. It’s obvious you don’t want to talk to him but he wants to talk to yo-”

“He was my first,” Sherlock cut her off as he unrolled his shirt sleeves.

“Your first…?” her voice trailed off, not exactly understanding, “First friend?”

He gave her a foul look as he pulled his suit jacket on. “Despite what my darling brother likes to tell people just so he can ridicule me, I’m not a virgin.”

“Ohhh…” Violet felt her face heat up. Then remembered Victor had said he had a wife and child… “Oh,” she said again, realizing Victor was his first _everything_.

She nodded. “So, you’re completely booked up until 2050?”

“2051 actually,” Sherlock said, crooking his arm out to her.

She placed her arm through his. “I’m not friends with any of my ex’s either.”

“All due respect, all of your ex’s think you’re dead.”

“All due respect Mr. Holmes,” Violet said in her haughtiest ‘Miss Smith’ voice, “So did yours, well for a short while at any rate.”

She smiled when Sherlock laughed at that. Well, not so much of a laugh as  a derisive snort, but still, better than nothing. Better than the black mood he had been in when she first found him in the courtyard at any rate.

“Fair enough,” he acquiesced as they returned to the dance.

**

Meanwhile, while Sherlock and Violet had been out in the courtyard, John and Mary, well, quite frankly, were having one of the best shags of their lives.

“That,” John panted afterward, still gripping onto to the wall of the cubicle he and Mary had been occupying in the women’s lavatory, “Was… I think… the dirtiest sex I’ve ever had.”

“Oh,” Mary said after John kissed her. “Then I do need to broaden your horizons.”

“OK,” John felt no need to argue that, kissing her again.

“You better go,” Mary said after a bit more kissing while John put himself more or less together again.

“Don’t you want to go out with me?” John asked, doing up his zip.

She shook her head. “I need to tidy up a bit,” she put her hand to her hair. “And I’m sure my hair and make-up’s a mess now too.”

“You’re perfect,” John told her. “But OK. I’ll meet you back at the dance.” He placed a feather-light kiss on her lips, then another and then slowly opened the cubicle door. He looked around, saw that the coast was clear and hurried out of the women’s loo.

Only to walk out just as Sherlock and Violet were walking past the ladies’ room door.

“John?”

“Oh, hello Sherlock, errr, yes, so Violet found you? Excellent. Let’s go back to the party.”

“Why were you in the Ladies’?”

“Forget it,” John started walking briskly away as Violet snorted then snickered.

“Is the Gents’ out of service?” Sherlock asked innocently as he trailed John. “What’s so funny?” he asked Violet but she only shook her head.

“It’s… _never mind Sherlock_!” John stuffed his hands in the trouser pockets and started walking even faster to get away from the pair of them.

“John,” Violet Smith called out very sweetly. “Where’s Mary?”

“ _Shut up Violet_.”

Sherlock and Violet had caught up to John, “Yes, John where is Mar-” then he inhaled sharply, catching a scent of… “ _Oh_ …oh. John, is that even sanitary? Shagging in there?”  

“I hate you both so much right now,” John grumbled as Violet hooted merrily while Sherlock kept plying questions upon him about how on earth did he manage that feat in such a small space and what if someone would have walked in on them…? Or decided to answer nature’s call in the cubicle next to them, wouldn’t that have killed the mood…?

Mary, oblivious to her husband’s current state of mortification, had finished using the cubicle for its actual purposes. She had just flushed the toilet and was about to leave but she heard the bathroom door swing open and upset women’s voices flooding the room.

Mary supposed she could have left without drawing attention. But instinct caused her to become very still and very quiet.

“… I just don’t understand what John Watson has anything to do with anything.”

“Shhh, not so loud!”

Mary felt her insides contract in a hard knot and she immediately perched on the toilet. Why were strange women  talking about her husband?

“Relax,” the first woman  scoffed. “We’re alone.”

Mary rolled her eyes. Civilians.

“If I tell you,” the second woman said, “Promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone?”

“Yeah, sure, OK.”

“Well,” the second woman said hesitantly. “See, I was working in the NICU when his baby girl was born. I didn’t realize that John Watson was _The_ John Watson, The Great Detective’s Blogger. Didn’t put two and two together until I saw him walking Molly down the aisle and Sherlock Holmes playing the violin.”

“Are you joking? I told you Molly’s friends with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why would I joke about a thing like that? Molly’s your friend, not mine, although she’s lovely. But I don’t go out to lunch or shopping or anything like that with her. And it isn’t like John Watson is an exotic name or there’s tons of pics of him. It’s always Sherlock Holmes that’s in the papers or on the telly. How would I know that John Watson was the same John Watson whose baby I took care of while she was in the NICU?”

“Right, but I don’t see why that’s making you such a fun-hater tonight.”

Mary closed her eyes, wanting to burst from the cubicle and smash that stupid bint’s head against the wall.

“You see, the baby, well, she never went home.”

“Oh,” to her credit, the first woman sounded ashamed. “Well, that is dreadful. Very sad to lose a baby and all. I can see why you would feel awkward bu-“

“That’s just it though!” The second woman interrupted frantically. “I don’t think… you see, I had always felt something… _shady_ had happened and now that I know that John Watson is The John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ assistant… well, now I know something wasn’t right about what happened to that little baby.”

Mary’s eyes flew open.

“I don’t understand…” the first woman said, trying to sound calm.

The second woman took a deep breath, steadying herself. “She was a preemie, yes, but she was fine. Her O2 levels were good, her stats were good. She was peeing and poo’ing properly so no worries there. She was tiny, yes, needed to be fattened up, but she was otherwise a healthy baby girl.”

“But you know how quickly those preemies can take a downwards turn, that’s why I got out of NICU. Couldn’t hack it.”

“She was only six, seven weeks early, Maggie,” the second woman insisted. “Babies born earlier than that have lived and grown up to lead perfectly normal lives.”

“What are you saying Jenny?” Maggie asked. “Are you saying… that because of who John Watson is and who he runs with… are you saying someone killed that little baby?”

“No,” Jenny said. “I’m saying someone _took_ her.”

Mary nearly fell over. She placed the palms of both her hands on the cold metal cubicle walls to steady herself.

“Took her? How does someone take a premature infant without alarms going off?”

“How does someone break into the Tower, the Bank of England and organize a massive prison break all at the same time?”

“Oh God, are you now one of those conspiracy theory fan-girls?” Maggie groaned. “Did you join _The Empty Hearse_? Did you buy a ruddy deerstalker?”

“Do you not remember that broadcast last January? _Did you miss me_?”

“And it was a hoax,” Maggie reminded her. “Scotland Yard came out and said so.”

“Maybe they said that so there wouldn’t be a massive panic,” Jenny said darkly. “All I know is while John was sitting in the NICU with his baby, she was fine. He finally leaves for a shower and a quick bite. I go on my lunch break at the same time. I come back, the incubator is empty and the doctor told me she had an infection in her lungs she hadn’t been able to fight off and she had died.”

“Jenny, sometimes that happens though…”   
  
“In under thirty minutes? And where was the body?”

“What?”

“They usually don’t move the body to the morgue until the parents have a chance to say goodbye. They’ll move it to a personal room so they can have a moment of privacy, but they don’t just ship an infant straight to the morgue. I went into the little room we use for…moments like that, to get it ready for Dr. Watson to say his goodbyes. His wife was still unconscious… but when I went in… there was no body. Maggie, someone took her, I know it.”

“No. You don’t,” Maggie said sternly. “Listen to yourself. Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now? What you’re saying is absolutely implausible.”

“I know what it sounds like,” Jenny said stubbornly.

“OK. Let me put it another way. Did you not hear what happened to the founder of that Sherlock Holmes fan-club _The Empty Hearse_? Phillip Anderson? Used to work forensics with the Met, Molly’s new husband was his boss. Phillip used to work some cases with Sherlock Holmes. Before Holmes met Dr. Watson. Well Anderson got his head smashed in for his troubles, didn’t he? Was in a coma, wasn’t he? Just pulled life support a month or so back, didn’t they?” 

“I know! That’s why I think someone kidnapped that baby. Sherlock Holmes has enemies and the enemies of Sherlock Holmes are the enemies of John Watson and what better way to hurt the detective and his assistant than to-”

“Even if you’re right, which, you’re not, if these enemies are as powerful as you make them sound like, you’re going to wind up getting yourself killed.”

“So what do I do? Nothing?”

“Yes,” Maggie said “Exactly. You do nothing. I think you need to just put all of that out of your mind. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that the John Watson that’s here tonight was the same John Watson who lost that baby you just happened to take care of last January. I think you’ve been watching a bit too much _Crimewatch_ lately. I think you need to come be my wing-woman, which is why I invited you to be my plus-one to Molly’s wedding in the first place. Molly has loads of brothers and cousins. I think we need to get some drinks, have some fun, go dancing, do a bit of flirting and forget this entire conversation.”

“I don’t know if I can forget.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Jenny! What if you’re wrong? Hm? What would it do to those poor people who are trying to heal from the death of their child if you come along and re-open old wounds? Give them hope when there isn’t any? Did you think about that?”

“No,” Jenny admitted. “Bu-”

“No,” Maggie cut across her. “There are no buts. It is what it is. Leave it, Jenny.”

There was a beat, but finally Jenny said “Fine. But now you see why I’ve been jittery all night.”

“Then let’s get some drinks into you,” Maggie said. “Come on. I’ll make sure you don’t bump into the Watsons or Sherlock Holmes the rest of the evening.”

Mary stayed perched on the toilet, waiting until she heard the ladies’ room door swing shut. Slowly she got off of the toilet, her legs shaking.

She staggered out of the cubicle, as if recovering from a bad bout of flu. She stood in front of the sink, turned the taps on, washed her hands then splashed cold water on her face.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Sherlock would have recognized the cold dead look in her eyes. It was the same expression that had been on her face right before she had shot him.

Her daughter might possibly be alive.

There were two suspects.

Moriarty.

And Mycroft.

**

19 July 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Sunday morning   
10:25 AM

Feeling the sunlight hitting his face, Sherlock pulled the duvet over his head. Under the covers, he rolled over only to discover he was not alone in his bed.

He stuck his head, turtle-like, from out underneath the covers and found himself nose-to-nose with Gladstone, Violet’s Alsatian, or as she called him, her German Shepherd.

“’Morning Stone,” Sherlock let his head flop back down onto his pillow.

The dog licked his face.

“Ugh,” he complained even as he reached to scratch the dog behind his cropped ears.

He sat up in bed, scratched his chest and ruffled his hair. He could smell coffee brewing.

Violet didn’t sleep much.

When they had gotten back from the wedding dance, Violet had kicked off her high heels and parked herself in front of the telly. She had claimed not to be tired at one in the morning after a long day of crime-solving and wedding antics. Sherlock had learned not to argue with her about her poor sleeping habits, especially if she found an old American television show she had enjoyed from back in her old life.

She was the reason  he couldn’t get rid of his cable subscription.

Although she had gotten him addicted to an old show she had really liked called _Dexter_ … shame they didn’t make new episodes any more…

Sherlock yawned, coughed a little ( _Maybe I should cut back on the cigs…_ ) and threw the duvet back, reaching down for his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. Violet was not the sort of flat-mate who would tolerate him walking around in nothing but a sheet… regardless of what may or may not have happened last night in the courtyard.

Was it a blessing or a curse Victor interrupted… whatever that was?

Sherlock pulled his bottoms up and his shirt over his head, pondering what the appearance of Victor Trevor meant to his life.

He immediately decided it meant nothing… until Victor paid him a call.

Not caring that his shirt was inside out, he yawned as he headed to use the little half-bathroom attached to his bedroom. Afterwards, he threw on his second-best dressing gown and padded barefoot out to the kitchen. 

He stood in the doorway, watching Violet cracking eggs into a ceramic bowl that used to hold brains. Strange, having his dishes and pots and pans to be actually used for preparing food… there were also glass dishes containing shredded cheese and diced vegetables.

Six months ago, those bowls held toe nails and eyeballs.

Not mixed together though. That would be unseemly.

“Hey,” she said, looking up, seeming to sense him rather than see him. “’Morning.”

She had evidently bathed already, but it was apparent she had made no plans to leave the flat today. He could smell the witch hazel she used to wash her face and the coconut oil she used as moisturizer. Her chestnut hair hung in waves down her back and her face was free from make-up, her freckles and her scar plain to see. She wore black capris  and a white-and-black striped  tank-top and was also barefoot.

Violet didn’t have the luxury of going out and about in London _au natural_ but Sherlock thought she looked much better as herself than as ‘Miss Smith’.

Not because she was a dazzling natural beauty, far from it. Without the make-up, her looks were pleasant. Passable. Ordinary. _But real_.

“Want one?” she tilted her head towards the carton of eggs.

His stomach surprised him, actually rumbled. “If it’s not inconvenient,” he said, sitting down at the table, cleared of experiments for once.

Another thing Sherlock learned about Violet was not only could she prepare simple meals, but she _cleaned_ when anxious or infuriated. While he had been recovering from his hideous withdrawal from the speedballs Jack Woodley forced into him, Violet had completely re-organized his kitchen as well as scrubbed the floors, counters, the kitchen table and walls.

Last week while they rehearsed _Canon in D_ and the waltz he wrote for the wedding he had berated her for what he called “incompetence” and what she called “out of practice.” Afterwards, she had alphabetized his books. All of them. 

He still couldn’t find anything. “I had a system!” he had yelled at her later that night.

“Had,” she had said coolly, playing an old, free version of _Angry Birds_ on her iPad. 

He didn’t speak to her the rest of that night.

He had the feeling she didn’t care.

_Maybe I’ll turn John’s room into a lab_ , he ruminated as he watched Violet crack more eggs letting only the egg whites fall into the bowl, expertly cupping the yolk in the brown shell. _She doesn’t sleep there anyway, says it makes her uncomfortable, like it’s a_ shrine _to John. Ridiculous_. _Still, I need a place to work, and she’s not as pliable as John when it comes to keeping body parts in the refrigerator. I think once we figure out where she can keep her clothes and things then I can begin converting the room into a proper lab…_

_Unless she moves into 221A, it is vacant at the moment… I know there are times she would like to be alone… but how to keep up the ruse of us being a couple if we’re not cohabitating… there must be a way… assuming she will staying here in England  for an extended amount of time, of course…. The guillotine swings above both of our necks but has not yet descended…_

The guillotine was, of course, as always, Mycroft.

Mycroft, utterly convinced Violet possessed secret knowledge beneficial and threatening to Crown and Country, had wanted Sherlock to turn Violet over to MI-6. Sherlock, naturally, decided that was a terrible idea. After he and Violet jumped into the Thames to avoid Mycroft’s agents (Violet would maintain Sherlock pushed her off the Millennium Bridge), Mycroft bound Sherlock and Violet neatly together as if he had physically shackled them.

Violet became his handler, smoothing over his social gaffes, minimizing his outbursts, improving his professional image. Made him appear more human and less… like a madman who faked his own suicide and then blew the head off of a blackmailing media mogul.

Sherlock became her gaoler. 221B Baker Street was her prison. She was not to leave London.

As his prisoner/flat-mate drizzled olive oil on a heated skillet, Sherlock contemplated  how Mycroft appeared to be in no particular hurry to obtain this so-called Holy Grail of Information from Violet. The only logical reason that Sherlock could see for that was the current arrangement suited Mycroft just fine. Because of Violet, Sherlock had stayed mostly out of Mycroft’s hair this past spring and most of the summer… or what was left of Mycroft’s hair at any rate. 

However, Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before Mycroft’s superiors were going to turn the thumbscrews. Demand Mycroft produce the goods. After all, MI-6 looked the other way when Sherlock had murdered Magnussen…. partially because they hated him too, but partially because of Mycroft’s intercession, especially when Moriarty came back.

Naturally, Mycroft would want payment for his services.

Mycroft never did anything for _free_.

He steepled his fingers as he watched Violet make an egg-white omelet with mozzarella cheese. Mycroft would want his reward for saving Sherlock and the reward he wanted was trapped somewhere inside her head. Her mind palace…

John had asked him after they had saved her from Jack Woodley: _Sherlock? In the warehouse? When you were confronting Woodley, you told him that Violet had information? Information she didn’t even know that she knew? If that makes any ruddy sense… what information is that, exactly?_

And Sherlock had lied. Had looked in the face of the best person he knew in the world and would do anything for and lied: _Nothing. I was bluffing._

_Oh. OK. Hell of a bluff_.

Except… he hadn’t been bluffing. 

But he wasn’t going to tell Mycroft a damned thing until Violet’s safety was absolutely 100 percent guaranteed.

That was the tricky part.

That also might involve her returning to America.    

He wasn’t sure what he thought about that.

Yes he did. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want his friend to leave… no matter whatever that… _rubbish_ , that _nonsense_ that had nearly occurred in the hotel courtyard last night. 

Stupid. Selfish. Sentimental.

He didn’t care.

_I will not give anything up to Mycroft until I can plan a way for Violet not only to be safe but to be absolutely_ free _. So she can_ choose _if she wants to stay or to go as well as to finally be able to use her real name. I just don’t know how much time I have… may need to press Mycroft for more information… that will involve talking to him. Ugh. Annoying. I haven’t talked to him since last May and it’s been_ glorious _…_

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” he snapped out of his reverie as Violet put a plate in front of him.

“Your phone. In the other room. The text alert’s been going off,” she said, slightly irritated.

He had never changed the text alert from The Woman’s orgasmic moan, even when he got new mobiles. Mostly because he forgot about it, his mobile usually stayed on silent or vibrate... but a small part of him still thought it was funny. The looks people gave him…

“Oh, I’ll get it later,” he said negligently, picking up his fork.

Violet rolled her eyes and returned to the stove, making her own breakfast, reaching for the bowl of diced peppers, onions and tomatoes. She knew better than to serve him anything remotely healthy. She hated how he would go without eating properly for days, slurping down highly sweetened coffee to stay awake or wolfing down a handful of sweets because his blood sugar dropped so low his hands would shake…but once the case was completed, he’d go on a feeding frenzy.

However, like he had learned not to nag her about her insomnia or cleaning sprees, she had learned to hold her tongue about his abysmal eating habits. Every time the subject came up, a fight always went down.

He learned to leave her be wherever she happened to be curled up… on the sofa, John’s chair, the floor, his bed… usually watching television or reading something on her iPad. He learned to be patient and just throw a blanket over her when she finally dozed off. He deduced sleep came hard for her due to being hyper-vigilant after spending years living in hiding. He could sympathize. For two years, he had been in the exact same boat.

She learned to carry hard candies in her handbag if she caught his hands shaking or if he started complaining about a headache when she was out with him on a case. She learned not to use the words “eating disorder” around him and made sure when he was in a bingeing phase to subtly steer him away from the greasy Chinese and Indian take-aways. Fortunately she really was a fairly decent cook, despite the lie she had originally told Mrs. Hudson about being “a crap cook.”  As for Mrs. Hudson, well, she loved any excuse to prepare them a massive meal and to remind them that she was Not the Housekeeper.

If and when people remarked how well they suited each other, Sherlock and Violet would just roll their eyes the minute those well-meaning people walked away.

Unless it was John. Then they would roll their eyes right in front of him and walk right away from his insufferable grin. 

“Coffee?” Violet asked as she slid her omelet on her plate.

Sherlock shook his head, swallowing. “I’ll make tea later.”

“I am capable of putting water in the kettle and turning it on.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Seven-going-on-eight years in England and the woman couldn’t boil a decent cuppa to save her life. Even standing next to her, watching her every move, he still could not determine how in the world she managed to ruin every single pot of tea she prepared.

Thank God she could at least cook… John had been a lousy chef.

Violet muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “Jackass,” and sat down next to him with a cup of coffee and her omelet. “I checked emails this morning,” she said, meaning messages received through John’s blog, in other words, private case requests.

“And?”

“All ones and twos,” she said apologetically. “Unless you’re desperate enough to follow some potential adulterers around with a camera.”

“I’d rather dig my own eyeballs out with a spoon.”

“Don’t sugar-coat it, how do you really feel?”

“We won’t be hearing from The Met anytime soon, with Lestrade off on his Sex Holiday with Molly,” Sherlock grizzled, definitely sounding more like himself than he had yesterday. “I shouldn’t have stopped that murderer for Dimmock so quickly.”

“Do you ever review what you’re about to say before the words leave your mouth?”

“No. Why?”

“Should look into that sometime,” Violet said archly.

Sherlock shot her a grimace before finishing his omelet. One thing John had in his favor as a flat-mate that Violet did not was that John had always been somewhat kinder when he felt the need to correct Sherlock’s social skills. Violet could be a bit harsh… how harsh depended on if she was in Miss Smith or Agent Hunter mode. Miss Smith was always proper, but could be cold about it. Agent Hunter, well, could be a right bitch about it at times.

“Any leads on Moriarty?” Violet asked, perhaps realizing her comments had been a little too cutting.  “We haven’t heard a peep from him since that text he sent John last May.”

Sherlock frowned, remembering… remembering John showing up on his doorstep at the crack of dawn, without calling first. Absolutely panic-stricken and with good cause…

The text had read:

“ _You can’t keep him safe forever…  
But I admire you for trying – JM_ ”

Didn’t need a genius to determine who “him” was.

“There’s a rumor he’s found a bolt-hole in Switzerland,” Sherlock said slowly. “MI-6 apprehended some of his lackeys in Meiringen but they’re not talking… since you cannot leave the country and I cannot leave you unsupervised,” he sighed. “I can’t go investigate where Moriarty’s men were hiding, see what those imbeciles of Mycroft’s have missed.”

“I think I’ve proven to Mycroft I’m not a flight-risk,” Violet said, sipping her coffee. “What if I stayed with Mary while you and John go? Mycroft can put as much fucking surveillance on us as his little black heart desires if that would make him feel better,” she took another sip of coffee. “Plus I think the walls are closing in on John. Think it would be good for him to get away. You two go and have a boys’ weekend.”

He considered it. Not a bad idea, actually. Plus it would give him an excuse to call Mycroft and probe for information about how much time was left on Violet’s clock. “He might make you wear a tracking device,” he warned her, “An ankle bracelet or something.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t done that to you.”

“He tried,” Sherlock said bluntly. “I was under house arrest the first time I got caught under the influence of narcotics. I figured out how to remove the bracelet without setting off the alarm.”

Sherlock didn’t bother hiding his drug history with Violet. No point, she had done her research and knew all about it anyway. The arrests, the rehabs, the relapses… the ugly cycle until he found his calling. Created his job…

Well, there was the time he got high for a case, the case that led him to Magnussen and a bullet in his chest…

And his unfortunate setback last January… which led to him showing up at Molly’s door step and… well, he didn’t remember much of that night…but he could clearly see the consequences.

He pushed that thought out of his head. 

The child would be Lestrade’s son. Not. His.

_Delete_.

His text alert went off again.

“For God’s sake, answer your damn phone!” Violet snapped as Irene’s moan filled the flat.  “It’s probably John anyway.” 

“What? The moaning?” but Sherlock, after giving Violet a cheeky grin, got up and retrieved his mobile from the lounge.

When he came back into the kitchen, his face was devoid of expression. His Poker Face.

“What is it?” she put her coffee mug down.

“You will probably want to pull your hair back and put your eyeglasses on.”

“Who’s coming over?”

“Victor Trevor.”

“What?”

“Yes. Exactly my reaction.”

“Why?” Violet shook her head, irritated with herself for asking such a stupid question. “Besides the obvious.”

“What’s the obvious?”

“He wants to see you. Idiot.”

“He’s married.”

“Like that’s ever stopped anyone before,” Violet said bluntly. “What time?”

“One o’clock.”

“Well,” Violet looked at her pretty gold wristwatch. Sherlock had gotten it fixed for her after her impromptu dip into the Thames (he had felt slightly guilty for pushing her off the bridge). “You better go get cleaned up, and when I say Cleaned Up,” she looked him up and down, from his untamed hair, his unshaved face, his inside out shirt, rumpled pyjama bottoms and bare feet, “I mean the best revenge on an ex is looking good… and letting him know he can’t have you.”

“You are evil,” Sherlock said, a smile shattering his poker face.

She shrugged. “I’m a woman. Hell hath no fury.”

“Indeed,” he said quietly, turning to go shower and shave. And pick out his best suit and shirt.   

Later, Sherlock found Violet again in the kitchen. Only now instead of making breakfast, she arranged fruit, biscuits and tiny pastries on a crystal platter, all from Mrs. Hudson. “Thank God, Mrs. Not-a-Housekeeper was home,” she said, without looking at him, again, seeming to sense his presence.

Her hair was now neatly plaited in some complicated braid and she had put her “Miss Smith face” on, foundation, powder and a light lip color. She also wore her fake eyeglasses and a light cardigan, despite the sweltering July heat.

She also had a slight dusting of freckles on her arms as well as the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. Most people didn’t notice but Sherlock had. Since Victor was an unknown entity to her, she was taking no chances. 

“I’ll let you make tea since you always bitch about how I make it,” Violet said, turning away from the platter, looking him up and down. “Ah, the infamous Purple Shirt,” she said, nodding in approval. “Good choice. OK, so,” Violet moved aside as Sherlock made a beeline towards the kettle. “How do I play this? Do I know that you two used to be You Two, or do I not know?”

“How does Miss Smith feel about non-traditional relationships?” he filled the kettle with water, his back to her.

In her faux-British accent, she immediately replied, “While she has absolutely no issue with homosexuality, she herself would never knowingly be caught up in anything so sordid as being involved with a bisexual man.” She blinked. Then in her real voice, she said. “Guess I answered my own question.”

“Apparently.”

“Miss Smith can be such a narrow-minded bitch sometimes.” Violet leaned against the counters, drumming her neatly-trimmed nails against the countertop. “So you never answered my question… why is he coming here? I thought he wanted to meet you for drinks. Later. Alone.”

“Case,” Sherlock opened a cupboard, grabbed a tin of tea.

“Case?”

“Mm.”

“Why didn’t he say so last night?”

“He was surprised. Didn’t expect to see me,” he cast a sideways glance at Violet before reaching for the good teapot and cups. “Didn’t expect to see me with a woman.”

“Oh,” Violet said. “Who did he expect to see you with?”

“Nobody,” he pulled out a silver tray. “He expected me to be alone.”

“Pining for him,” Violet said darkly.

Sherlock shrugged. “Irrelevant.”

“Are his wife and child irrelevant? Does the wife know about you two?”

“Probably not,” Sherlock arranged the cups on the tray, waiting for the kettle to boil. “As far as she’s concerned, he is straight as an arrow.”

“When in reality, he’s so far deep in the closet, he’s in Narnia.”

“His family is very religious,” Sherlock explained. “As well as quite conservative and extremely wealthy. When Victor and I met and became… well, it would just never do, for him to carry on with a man.”

His voice completely lacked emotion.

That worried Violet more than if he had sounded angry or hurt.  Or even just a little sad.

Sherlock was always his most dangerous when he was at his coldest.

This was not going to be pretty.

“Is he lying?” she asked. “Making up a bullshit story about a case just so he can see you sooner?” 

“Hard to determine from a text,” Sherlock admitted. “But that is plausible, yes.”

“Well,” Violet said, walking to the kitchen table. “If he really does have a case, make sure it’s not going to eat up too much of your time. I have a feeling you’re going to be hearing from The Met fairly soon, even though Lestrade’s on his honeymoon.”

“Why?”

Violet held up the newspaper. “There was another murder in the West End. Another charred corpse was found in front of a theatre last night. She’s the third one, so that means-”

“Serial killer,” Sherlock’s eyes lit up as if she had just told him he won the lottery. “ _Excellent_!”

“Yeah, awesome,” she said in her dry-as-dust voice. “I’m going to shut Stone up in your bedroom so he doesn’t scare the shit out of Victor.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said silkily. “Let Gladstone stay. Victor is afraid of dogs. Always has been.”

“And you say I’m evil,” Violet said as there was a loud knock at the door.

“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock? Violet?” Mrs. Hudson chirped.

“Showtime,” Violet said, smoothing her hand over plaited hair. She stood in front of him. “How do I look?” she turned the British accent on.

“Like an old school-teacher. Fussy and priggish.”

“Perfect.”

“And… um,” a sliver of humanity slipped into Sherlock’s voice. A bit of uncertainty. “This looks alright then?” He tugged on his suit jacket, black as coal.

Violet reached over to him, picked off a piece of fluff on his jacket sleeve then unbuttoned another one of his shirt buttons and gave him a wicked look. “Let’s make your ex cry about the day he left you.”

“Why do you assume he left me?”

She arched her eyebrow at him “Profiler,” she reminded him as she left to answer the door.

Victor, of course, was just as handsome and charming as he had been last night. But dressed far more casually: a gray t-shirt, jeans and trainers, all new of course. All designer labels. All fitting his body perfectly, he could have been a model for a men’s clothing catalog. A pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses hung from the v-neck collar of his shirt. His watch and wedding ring glinted in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

He looked as he always did. As he always had looked as long as Sherlock had known him. Attractive and confident. 

Even when they had been using together, Victor always managed to look somewhat put-together. But then, Victor hadn’t gone as far down the spiral as Sherlock had…

_Delete…_

Sherlock watched the besotted Mrs. Hudson escort Victor to the Client’s Chair, chattering on about how _nice_ it was to meet him, nice to meet any friend of Sherlock’s really... Victor had charmed the old lady right down to her toes.

But Victor had that effect on every woman, old and young, ugly and beautiful. Of course he did. He was the Man No Woman Could Have, which made him immediately irresistible to all females.

He had noted even Violet had been startled by Victor’s good looks, or at least she had been last night. On a superficial level, yes, she found Victor appealing as well.

This irked him for some illogical reason.

However he knew Violet was too analytical as well as too suspicious of everyone to simply fall for someone just because he was handsome and well-mannered. She merely admired him from a distance the way she would a piece of art. Or a rugged film star.

He could tell though, by how her eyes subtly roamed over Victor from head to toe while she made small talk before retreating to the kitchen, her busy brain scrambled to acquire as much information about Victor as possible. Trying to assemble a profile on the fly.

Sherlock knew she would be Googling Victor Trevor later when he was gone.

Sherlock sat down majestically in his chair as Violet carried out the platter of nibbles and Mrs. Hudson the tea tray. “Oooh, sit down, Violet, let me, dear,” Mrs. Hudson insisted on pouring everyone a cup but declined to join them, much to Sherlock’s relief. He had no patience for Mrs. Hudson’s nattering today. Or any day really, but especially not today.

“She’s great, Sherlock,” Victor said after Mrs. Hudson left, babbling on about how she was meeting that nice Mr. Pritchard from the dry-cleaners (“… you know the one who can get the blood stains out of your fancy old Belstaff, Sherlock!”) to see a film and coffee afterwards but it was Not A Date and she simply had to dash to do up her hair and put her face on for her Not A Date.

“We adore her,” Violet said, sitting in John’s chair, taking minuscule sips of tea. “We wouldn’t be able to find our socks without her, would we Sherlock?”

“Your socks, you mean,” Sherlock sniffed. “I have a sock index.”

“Still?” Victor laughed, shaking his head. “Lord some things never change.”

“And some things irrevocably have changed,” Sherlock’s eyes flicked towards Violet, then back at Victor, staring him down.

Victor, to his credit, looked slightly uncomfortable.  But that could have been due to Gladstone deciding to park his furry rump next to Victor. “Look, I’m sorry I’m invading your Sunday. But, I didn’t see the point of delaying any longer. Uh,” he cast a nervous look at the former police dog, who sat, alert and watching.  “Lovely dog you’ve got there.”

“Oh _thank you_ ,” Violet gushed. “Isn’t he sweet?”

“Yes… sweet, ah, erm, yes,” Victor cleared his throat, tried to regain his composure, tried to ignore Gladstone. “You see, um, I do have a favor to ask of you Sherlock. When my sister-in-law found out I knew you, knew you personally, she insisted I seek you out. Ask if she could hire you for a case. Money is no object, of course.”

“Why can’t she ask me herself?” Sherlock put his tea cup down, placed an ankle on the opposite knee and pressed his fingertips together.

“Two reasons,” Victor reached for a biscuit. “One, she’s still in New York. Two, she loathes her father, whom she wishes you would investigate.”

“I don’t have time for boring cases regarding daddy issues.”

“Why does she hate her father?” Violet asked, watching Victor intently as he munched on the biscuit. She couldn’t tell if there really was a case or if he was indeed lying just to see Sherlock again. Not for the first time, she found herself bitterly jealous of Sherlock’s abilities.

Victor swallowed, wiped crumbs off his lip. “She believes her father murdered her mother.”

“Boring.”

“Sherlock!” Violet admonished him in her sternest ‘Miss Smith’ voice.

“It’s alright Miss Smith,” Victor leaned back in his chair. “I’m well aware of and used to Sherlock’s impatience. You see, her mother’s death was ruled a suicide. Alice, my sister-in-law, never believed her mother would do such a thing. Or if it was indeed truly suicide, her father drove her mother into it. Alice described her father as an eccentric man, moody, bi-polar almost. Could be violent at times, she said. Alice told me she moved to America the minute she was old enough to leave the country and as soon as she could scrape the money together to do so. By leaving her father and the country she forfeited quite a sizeable trust fund as well as what was rightfully her inheritance from her mother.”

“When did she move to America?” Sherlock finally asked a question instead of issuing an insult.

“Nearly eighteen years ago, I believe?”

“Why is she investigating her father now?” Violet kept her posture perfect, her back not even touching the chair as she continued taking dainty sips of her sugary tea. “Is it the money? Does she need it?”

“Oh no,” Victor shook his head. “Money is not an issue for her. Alice has done quite well for herself. She was quite the beauty in her day, did a bit of modeling and some acting when she was younger, but she’s an agent now, actually. Owns her own agency. Has a few A-listers as her clients, American and British. I’d tell you which actors, but it would be rude to name-drop.”

“Never stopped you in the past,” Sherlock said under his breath.

Victor ignored his comment. “Believe me Miss Smith, Alice does quite well for herself. Plus when she married my wife’s brother, well,” Victor shrugged. “What’s his is hers and vice-versa. My wife’s family is considerably well-off, to put it mildly. So when I said ‘Money is no object,’ Sherlock, I meant it. Alice will pay whatever outrageous price you quote.”

“So what’s spurring her on now?” Violet chose her words carefully, mindful to sound like an inquisitive Englishwoman and not an American federal agent. “Why is she so eager to re-open old wounds?”

“Her father has remarried,” Victor explained. “And has a young son. Alice had no idea she had a brother. She had completely cut all ties with her family when she moved to America. She only found out about the child a few months ago. Caught it in passing while channel-surfing, it was mentioned on one of those sleazy tabloid shows. She’s concerned about history repeating itself with her father’s second wife, of course, but she’s more worried about her half-brother. He’s only a young boy, five or six years old. She wants custody, you see. Give him a stable home as opposed to… well, whatever her childhood must have been like.”

“Still boring,” Sherlock yawned. “Barely a three.”

“Then let me turn this up to eleven for you,” Victor said coolly. “Alice changed her last name to Rutledge when she moved to America. I wasn’t joking when I said she cut all ties to her family. Her original surname was Rucastle, does that ring any bells?”

“No,” Violet said just as Sherlock said, “The fashion designer?”

“Yes,” Victor said, “Jepthro Rucastle is her father, noted fashion designer and CEO of Persephone Ltd. Her mother was always just called Ellie Cullen before she was married, but her full name was Lady Elise Cullen-Culpepper. Her cousin is-”

“Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, Earl of Winchester,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Oh God,” Violet said, before she could stop herself. 

“Oh,” Victor looked at Violet sympathetically. “So… you know.”

Violet merely lifted her eyebrows and studied her tea cup. “I am aware there is bad blood between the Holmeses and the Cullen-Culpeppers, yes.”

Victor grinned at Sherlock. “I can see why you like her.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, didn’t move, just continued to sit, legs crossed, fingertips pressed together, staring Victor down.

Then his eyes dropped to the floor. “Violet, I’d like a moment alone with Victor if you don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Violet blinked, setting the tea cup down. “Of course. I’ll take Gladstone for a walk. Give you two a chance to catch up on your own,” Violet stood up and walked around to Sherlock, kissing him on the temple. All Part of the Act. “I’ll see you later,” Violet told him, then whispered in his ear “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He still hadn’t moved. He had turned himself into a block of ice.

Fetching his leash, Violet called for Gladstone. He bounded up and away from his seat next to Victor (much to Victor’s apparent relief). The dog happily trotted to his mistress, sitting like a good boy while Violet fastened the leash to his collar. “Nice seeing you again, Victor,” Violet made her voice warm and soft as her insides turned into a hard knot, straining and pulling. “And, in the future, please call me Violet, I insist.”

Her “spidey sense” tingled… someone had walked over her grave… _Something’s not right about this_ … her instincts told her as Victor told her _likewise Miss Smith, I mean Viole_ t and oh they _must_ do dinner sometime, he’ll bring his wife along next time…

Violet knew there would be no Next Time.

He did not want his wife to meet Sherlock. Ever.

She looped her everyday handbag over her shoulder, popped her mobile into her pocket and tugged on Gladstone’s leash. She opened the door, whispered a German command to Gladstone and led him out the door.

Sherlock waited a beat after the door shut. Then he lifted his eyes back up to Victor.

“Why?”

His voice wasn’t dispassionate anymore. Thirty years of hurt was compressed into that little three-letter word.

“Because,” Victor kept his eyes on Sherlock. “I love you and you deserve closure.”

“Don’t do this,” Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Alice believes her father killed her mother as a favor to the Earl. With Lady Elise out of the way and Alice out of the country, there is no heir. The Earl doesn’t have to share. Rucastle is a bully and like all bullies if you stand up to him, he will crumple. Prove that he murdered Lady Elise and he’ll sing like a canary. If it means saving his own sorry hide, Rucastle will sell the Earl out so fast it will make your head spin. Sherlock, don’t you want to see justice done?”

Sherlock now rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Don’t _do_ this,” he asked again.

“He belongs in prison, Sherlock,” Victor pressed on. “Hell, he deserves to _die_.”

“This old quarrel again,” Sherlock bolted out of his chair. “Seven years… seven years since I saw you last and this, _this_ is what you bring up!” he shouted. “This is why you wanted to see me. This is what made you finally contact me.”

Victor was out of his seat too. “Telephones work both ways, Sherlock. So does email.”

“Not for the dead,” Sherlock reminded him quietly.

Victor flinched, as if Sherlock had hit him. “I thought… when your mum rang me to tell me about you jumping… and then again about the shooting last summer. I was wrecked, destroyed really. I hated myself for the last things I had said to you before I got married…before I had left for America with Patricia…”

“I was still using,” Sherlock said brusquely. Then he lied, “I don’t even remember what you said.”

“But you’re clean now, aren’t you?”

_For the most part_ Sherlock thought but said out loud, “Yes.”   

“That’s good… that’s brilliant, really,” Victor said. “Seven years… has it really been seven years? Since we last spoke, since we last saw each other?”

“Yes.”

Victor nodded. “Then I waited seven years to do this.”

He reached for Sherlock, pulled him to him, carded his fingers through his hair then started kissing him fiercely, as if the world were ending tomorrow.


	4. Desperate, Damaged Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“While I appreciate the concern, I am in no mood for any tedious heart-to-hearts right now, my dear Violet,” Sherlock informed her, eyes still closed...."
> 
> \---> TRIGGER WARNINGS

Chapter Four: Desperate, Damaged Glory

Sherlock felt like he was nineteen years old again, back in university… back when he had been just a deeply confused young man, hiding his damage as much as he could.

But he never really could hide his brilliance, which ended up alienating him from most of his classmates.

But not from Victor.

 _I like you just fine_ , Victor had said before showing him that kissing, snogging, shagging, fucking, all of it, none of it had to _hurt_. Had to be humiliating.

That most of it was quite nice, actually.

But oh, how it robbed you of logic, of reason. How the mind literally shut down as the body took over. How sex caused people to do the stupidest things.

Look at the men and women Irene Adler had entertained for example.

Look at the foolish things _he_ had done because of her, and she had barely touched him. Just bared her body, hit him with a riding crop, kissed him on the cheek. Made promises she never intended to keep.

Easy in the end… push her away from him. Keep her dangling. Keep her at arm’s length.

Irene, Janine, even Molly (although he made sure to push her into the arms of a good man who would take care of her and love her); he could and did push them all away from himself. Keep himself free of distractions, to focus on The Work. The Work was his spouse, his mistress and his child. The Work was his life… all others _must_ be pushed away.

Victor though… Victor he pulled closer. Grabbed his t-shirt and pulled him closer. Squeezed his eyes tight as Victor kissed him the way he used to, not quite rough but not gentle either. Ran his hands down Victor’s back, feeling through the thin, soft cloth of his t-shirt the musculature of his body… _Still active, still plays squash twice a week, jogs almost daily_ …

He was still Sherlock Holmes, after all. His mind never did really _completely_ shut off.

His breathing changed to rasps as Victor started fumbling with his shirt buttons. He shivered as he felt Victor’s lips and tongue and teeth on his throat. Sherlock’s hands suddenly had little minds of their own: sliding down Victor’s back, then slipping underneath the t-shirt, relishing the feel of the smooth skin against his roughened hands. He felt Victor respond, heard him sigh, felt him press himself against Sherlock, his hands running up and down the sides of Sherlock’s bare torso now that Sherlock’s shirt flapped wide open. Victor ran fingertips down the outside of Sherlock’s legs then back up his bare abdomen again... teasing him, torturing him…

Sherlock clutched at the hem of Victor’s t-shirt, fully intending to pull it up and over his head… especially since he could feel Victor’s sliding down his abdomen again, groping for his belt now… unbuckling it…

Then… a voice in Sherlock’s ear whispered _Don’t do anything stupid_ …

But it wasn’t Violet’s voice… it was the voice of his conscience, his heart…

John…

_Sherlock… bit not good… you’re angry and you’re hurt. Dangerous combination, mate… and Violet needs you. You can’t be shagging your ex when she needs you as her cover story… without you… she’s as good as dead… you promised her…_

_And… speaking of promises… He’s. Married. With a child… Not. Good._

“Victor,” Sherlock broke away just as Victor’s lips found his again. Sherlock took two steps back, shaking his head, buttoning his shirt up again. Tucking the tails of his shirt in, he said “I will not permit you to use me to cheat on your wife.” He re-fastened his belt buckle, took another step away from Victor then lowered himself into his chair again, like a disapproving king.

In a cutting voice, he added “And I am not using Violet the way you are using Patricia. Violet is actually… important to me. If she were to leave because she believed I was unfaithful, I would blame you completely for whatever could happen after she left.”

Victor licked his lips, heaved a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t… I assumed… I made a mistake.” 

“That is an understatement,” Sherlock tented his fingers together again, furious with himself for losing control. The last time he acted so foolishly was with Molly…

On the bright side, at least Victor couldn’t get pregnant.

“What’s so funny?” Victor asked, noticing the half-amused look on Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t think you could comprehend even if I used very small words.”

“Ah, I always hated it when you get like this,” Victor grabbed the back of the Client’s Chair. “All cold and superior. Mr. High-and-Mighty.”

“I do not Get Like This,” Sherlock wanted him to leave. Now. “I _am_ Like This.”

“You weren’t always. You’ve been listening to Mycroft too much. He got into your head at last. Made you cut out your heart. Probably forced you to eat it too, while it was still beating…”

“Then fortunately I found a _woman_ who accepts me as I am,” Sherlock injected as much venom into his voice as he possibly could… but he found himself thinking _And she really does too… just like John does… will have to think about that later…_    

“Don’t be like that,” Victor gave him a smile, that smile he so rarely saw from other people. A smile of someone just happy to see _him_... nobody was ever happy to see _him_. “I fucked up, I’m _sorry_. But I still want to be friends. I miss you, you smug bastard. Did that ever cross that  great big brain of yours?” When Sherlock refused to reply, Victor added “And it won’t happen again. I promise. You found someone, you really found someone and I’m glad you did. Truly. You’re always such a solitary old thing. I had always thought that maybe you and your partner John Watson were… but he’s just a good friend, isn’t he?”

“He’s my best friend,” Sherlock said immediately. Knowing what John would say and would want him to do; he added unwillingly “I will take the case.”

“You will?” Victor said, half-astonished, half-relieved.

“Let me make the caveat that John Watson may be doing the heavy lifting, but he’s quite capable. I trust him absolutely. I have a few other cases that take precedence.”

“Jim Moriarty,” Victor said darkly. “I’m not a complete moron Sherlock. I’ve been following the news. Just… you know… if you have to fake your death again… a little head’s up?”

Sherlock cracked the smallest of smiles. “Would hate to have you waste money on more condolences cards and flowers to my mother.”  

“Considerate of you.”

“I do try.”

“Speaking of trying… can we… try to be friends?”

“You sound like fourteen-year-old school girl.”

“Thanks a lot,you dick.”

“Well, that is why everyone always assumed you were the woman in the relationship. Always wanting to discuss _feelings_.”

“OK, OK,” Victor let go of the chair, held his hands up. “Jesus. You get more insufferable the older you get.”

Sherlock blew through his nose, longing for a cigarette. “Let’s solve this case first,” he conceded, just a little. “Then perhaps, afterwards, we can discuss… friendship.”

Sherlock provided Victor some instructions with his fees as well as some instructions to give Alice, including a way to coordinate her schedule with his so they could Skype. Then he simply closed his eyes.

Victor, very used to Sherlock’s long lapses into  silence, knew this was a dismissal.

“Until next time,” Victor said and let himself out.

 _That went about as well as could be expected_ , Victor told himself as he walked down the stairs, pulling his mobile out of his back jeans pocket.

Before letting himself outside though, he sent a text:

_It’s done. Now what? - VT_

A full minute passed before the response came:

_Now you wait. Soon all you desire will be yours. Patience._

“Right,” Victor said, closing his eyes, leaning his head against the door, half-hoping Sherlock would come down… would find him… would ask what’s wrong…

But that was a stupid wish. Sherlock would never ask _what’s wrong_. He would take one look at him and demand to know _What have you done?_

Best to leave now before Sherlock did decide to come downstairs after all…

Victor turned the knob, pushed the heavy old door open… and found Miss Smith and her monstrous hound waiting outside.

She had tied her cardigan around her waist and wore a pair of ridiculously enormous sunglasses. She held her dog’s leash in one hand and her mobile in the other.

“Oh, leaving so soon?” she asked lightly with a polite smile.

“Afraid so Miss Sm- I mean Violet,” he corrected herself “Again, I do apologize for dropping in on such short notice, but next week is booked solid between work and house-hunting and finding a suitable school for Leigh, my daughter,” he explained.

“I understand completely,” she reassured him with a smile. “I apologize for Sherlock being… well, _Sherlock_.”

“Oh,” Victor pulled his keys out of his pocket. “It is good to see some things don’t change.”

“I’d like to hear some of your Sherlock stories sometime,” Violet said honestly.

“Oh, I’ve got loads. The crazy things we used to do…”

“I mean the real ones,” Violet dropped the smile “The ones that still wake him up in the middle of the night in a panic.” _Like he will tonight… I’m 99-point-9 percent sure he’s going to have some sort of PTSD nightmare tonight… so yeah, thanks for dropping by… asshole._

“Oh,” Victor fidgeted with his keys, running his thumb over the key fob. _She really does care about him… she’s no gold-digger, like that Janine bitch… selling sexy-time stories about her and Sherlock. I knew those stories were rubbish just by the headlines…_   “So you know more than you were letting on up there.”

She merely lifted her eyebrows so they were visible above her sunglasses.

“Just… don’t push him, OK? To talk. It won’t do a bit of good. Just let him work. This case… this case will be good for him. Work is what heals him. He craves action, not words.”

“The last time he took on a case this dangerous he got shot,” Violet pointed out. “That’s not kind of action I want him to take on at the moment.”

Victor was surprised not to see icicles forming in the air as she spoke. “Try to stop him then,” he told her, but with an easy-going smile.

She tilted her head. “I did once,” she admitted.

“And?”

“My flat exploded and I was abducted.”

“Is that how you two met?”

“More or less.”

“How romantic.”

“Isn’t it though?” her lips quirked up in a half-smile. “You’re right. It’s an act of futility to try to stop him once he’s dug in. I just worry about him, you know? I can’t help it.”  

“Well, of course you worry about him,” Victor surprised himself how easily these words oozed out of him. Like fresh honey. “You love him.”

Violet looked up at the building, craning her neck as if she could see the windows of 221B from her position. As if she could see the Great Detective watching them.

And maybe he was. He did that.

“Of course,” she said softly. “Yes.” Then she took her sunglasses off and fixed her feline eyes onto Victor’s. “I just don’t want him to get hurt again.”

“Neither do I,” Victor said, the smile gone, staring her down.

Violet didn’t blink, didn’t budge. “I mean it,” she said, as threateningly as she dared.

“Ah,” Victor said, misunderstanding her completely. “You’ve been talking to Mycroft too.”

She hid her surprise. “He is a wealth of information,” she said dryly.

“OK then, at least we know where we stand then,” he said, the joking and flirtatious demeanor gone now.

“I don’t think we do, Mr. Trevor,” Violet said as Gladstone rose to all fours, sensing tension. He lifted his sleek head towards Victor, nose twitching. Victor took a step back, eying the Alsatian apprehensively. “ _Stille_ ,” she muttered to the dog without looking away from Victor. “I don’t think you and I are actually on the same page at all.”

_Interesting that you think I would  automatically have a low opinion of you after talking to Mycroft. Wonder why. Might be important. Sherlock won’t tell me. This might mean I may actually have to talk to Mycroft to get some answers… shit…_

“I’m not going to be that woman who says who her boyfriend can and can’t be friends with; I just don’t want him to get hurt again. What is so difficult to understand about that?”

“Oh, I can see why Sherlock likes you so well now. He would never take up with a spineless, mindless woman. I bet your rows are spectacular.”

Thinking back to the fish-in-bathtub episode, she said mildly “John has said he wanted to sell tickets to our next rout, yes.”

“Well, put me down for front row seats,” He flashed a smile at her, pretended to doff a hat towards her and said “Good afternoon _Miss Smith_.”

 “Mr. Trevor,” Violet inclined her head, like she had last night, only far more formally, not just a brief nod. As if she really was royalty, the bloody Queen of England herself.

The minute Victor turned his back and was walking towards his car, Violet began texting John. She paused only to briefly snap a picture of Victor’s number plate as he drove away. Might be important, might be not. She wasn’t sure.

What she was quite sure about was she didn’t like him. Not one jot.

She knew he didn’t like her either. Sherlock had been right (as usual). Victor expected Sherlock to be alone, unattached.

 _He is jealous._ Violet tucked her mobile back into her pocket and tugged on Gladstone’s leash. _Wonderful_. “Gladstone, _kommen_ ,” she ordered the dog as they started their belated walk. 

She had a feeling Sherlock needed to be alone.  Needed a minute to sort out his feelings… or to deny them. Delete them.

She wished she had her trainers on so she could run. Or her gym was open so she could kick and punch a bag. Or she could take a long motorcycle ride to clear her head…

Her entire life depended on the flimsiest of pretexts. Victor could rip it to shreds in seconds.

 _John, text me back_ … she silently pleaded as she walked away from 221B Baker Street.

Meanwhile, Victor had elected to take the scenic route back to his in-laws. Ironically, his thoughts mirrored “Miss Smith’s”… but he had the luxury of  driving  around for a bit to gather his wits and pull himself together…

_She doesn’t like me, Violet, although I think she made it clear a few seconds ago we aren’t going to be friends after all. She didn’t tell me to call her “Violet” when I called her “Miss Smith” again.I wonder if Sherlock actually confided in her about his childhood and if he did… how much does she know? Has she guessed I’m more than an old mate from uni? Stupid of me, to think time froze when I left London. I had convinced Patricia to move back to England on the flimsiest of pretexts… Miss Smith can tear everything asunder with just a word. He’s fond of her, I can tell… he glances at her in the exact same way he used to sneak looks at me when he thought no one was paying attention… and the way they were carrying on last night in the courtyard… why did I interrupt? Why didn’t I let them have their moment?_

_Because I am jealous… she has the life I wanted. Or the life I thought I wanted… I should have given him one last chance…_

_I wasn’t lying… I did hate myself for what I said to him the last time we spoke… still do…_

**

28 March 2008  
New Scotland Yard  
Friday  
11:11 AM

Sherlock Holmes shivered as if the room was a morgue.

It wasn’t of course, it was an interrogation room and the temperature was comfortable enough.

He sniffed then sniffed again, as if he had a cold. Wished he had a tissue. Wished his head didn’t ache, wished his entire body didn’t ache.

 _Bloody withdrawal_ he thought sourly, wrapping his long arms around himself. He became aware he had lost weight again. He tried to remember the last time he had a proper meal then his stomach seized up at the very idea of chewing and swallowing food.

Just as he wiped his sweating face with his hand, the door swung open. Sherlock looked up, recognized the sergeant. He struggled for his name ( _prematurely graying hair, brown eyes, not a complete idiot, unhappy marriage, childless, smoker…_ ) as the man sat down in front of him.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock spat out.

“Thought I told you I never wanted to see you in here again, Mr. Holmes?” Sergeant Lestrade placed an ashtray, pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the table. Sherlock seized upon the cigarettes the same way a greedy child snatches sweets from the candy jar.

“Oh, but we never talk anymore Sergeant, I’ve missed you,” Sherlock drawled as he tried to light a cigarette. His hands shook too badly. “These little chats of ours…”

Lestrade got up “Let me, it’s fucking painful for me to watch you struggle.” He took the lighter away from Sherlock and lit the cigarette for him. Then he lit one for himself and sat back down. “Yeah, well, these chats of ours are usually a huge inconvenience for me. All the bloody paperwork… and then all my paperwork disappears into a black hole. You’ve got an angel somewhere in the system, Mr. Holmes. The computers show this is your first offence, but we both know that’s not true, is it?”

Sherlock held his tongue for once, concentrated on the cigarette.

“But it’s your lucky day, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t test positive for coke this time, good for you. You did test positive for morphine but lo and behold, the prescription you had tucked in your wallet was actually valid, for once. A Dr. Ludlow? How much did you have to bribe him to write you a script for a drug you don’t need?”

“Old football injury. Plays up when it rains.”

“Come off it. You’re not even going to see the inside of a courtroom… unless we need you to testify, of course.”

“Testify?”

“Jesus Christ, you don’t even remember, you were that high,” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “When we pinched you, you kept raving about the carpet in the doctor’s office, that it was a matter of urgency for us to check the carpet.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, pretended to be only inhaling, but in reality, desperately trying to remember. _Yes, I did notice something in Dr. Ludlow’s office. The brand new carpet…_

“He had beautiful wood flooring before,” Sherlock spoke slowly. “It made no sense for him to cover it with carpet when he had spent so much money on restoring the original wood.” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. His head hurt, pounded. The insides of his arms and thighs itched, begging, aching, craving, _needing_ the needle. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “But that wasn’t it… I…” he tamped his cigarette too hard; ash sprayed everywhere instead of neatly inside the ashtray.

His eyes opened “Lime. I smelt lime in the room. There’s a cellar below his office isn’t there?” His foot started jiggling. “You found… something, didn’t you?”

Lestrade nodded. “You wouldn’t shut up about it. We had probable cause. After all, he broke the law by writing a fraudulent prescription. Figured you weren’t the only one he was writing prescriptions for. So I went back with a few rookies and a warrant. Tore all that lovely carpet up. Found the trap door.”

Sherlock stubbed the cigarette out, the nausea returning. It wasn’t just from withdrawing though. “How many where there?” he asked, remembering the scent of lime and the stench of decaying flesh lingering odiously below that…

“Three,” Lestrade told him “Wife and two kids.”

Sherlock slowly doubled over until he rested his clammy cheek against the cool metal table. “I knew he was lying when he told me the wife took the kids on holiday to Ireland.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“I’m an addict who fell off the wagon again, Sergeant. You wouldn’t believe me. Obviously.”

He could feel Lestrade studying him, staring at his dirty, unkempt curls. He tried to remember the last time he had properly bathed. He realized, almost ashamed, he didn’t care.

He just wanted to go back to sleep… to dive back down into the golden haze, to lock down the doors of his mind palace and just… stop. Stop moving, stop thinking, stop… being.

He was so tired… all the time now…

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said his name instead of the condescending “Mr. Holmes” for the first time. “Did you… get caught… on purpose, so we’d catch Dr. Ludlow?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock muttered. “I was high, obviously. Who knows what I was thinking.”

“Maybe it was your subconscious. Maybe you were still trying to be you despite the drugs. Despite whatever it is you’re trying to run away from.” Lestrade took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s not too late, you know. You’re what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-two as of the sixth of last January.”

“You’re not like the other junkies we pick up. I saw it, the first time I nabbed you, there’s just… something… in your eyes. You see everything, I think.”

 _I see everything, I hear everything. I smell everything… an unexpected touch can induce a panic attack, smells are the worst… just… stop talking and let me_ sleep…

“The way your mind works though. You would be a good detective I think.”

“I’m not a detective, I’m a scientist.” _Or I used to be… or should have been… I don’t know anymore what I’m_ supposed _to be_ …

“Isn’t that the same thing? In the end, detectives and scientists do the same thing. Solve mysteries, don’t they?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, Lestrade said “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you before you left. If not for you, I wouldn’t be in line for a promotion.” 

Sherlock lifted his head. “You’re letting me go?”

“Not exactly,” Lestrade stood up. “Your bail’s been made.”

 _Oh God, Mycroft_ , Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut. “I’d rather stay here, thanks.”

“It’s not your brother.”

Bit by bit, as if recovering from the flu, Sherlock shakily rose from his chair. He followed Lestrade out, miserably aware that if it wasn’t Mycroft bailing him out then it was his parents.

It was worse, actually.

Victor stood there, leaning against the wall, waiting for him.

“Are you sure I can’t stay?” Sherlock murmured to Lestrade.

“Get yourself cleaned up. Literally and figuratively,” the sergeant told him. “I mean it, Sherlock. I don’t want to see you in here ever again… unless you really do become a detective. Go,” he tilted his head towards Victor. “You know how this goes. Go get your things and get out of here.”

Sherlock shuffled meekly past Victor to get his wallet, his cigarettes, his watch, his mobile, his ratty old scarf and beat-up jacket and his violin case.

Once he retrieved the meagre possessions that had been taken away from him when he was booked, he turned and faced Victor. Hot shame now bubbled up inside of him. He didn’t want Victor to see him like this. Old dingy shirt, turn-ups on his trousers frayed, dirty shoes, disheveled hair, unshaven. 

Victor, of course, looked neatly groomed, as always. He was the one who  had shocked everyone when he had entered rehab. _Not Victor!_ Friends and family had cried out. _He was always so clean-cut. He Didn’t Look The Type. He came from A Good Family._

A muscle in Victor’s cheek twitched. His normally friendly blue eyes were decidedly unfriendly. Sherlock could tell, by the way Victor held his body, by the way he clenched his fists, if he could have gotten away with punching him in a police station, he bloody well would have.

Sherlock immediately whispered something he rarely said: “I’m sorry.”

“Come on then,” Victor barely could control his voice as he started walking away.

“I’ll take the bus,” Sherlock said quickly, staying put.

“You have five pounds to your name, now come on,” Victor snapped.

Once outside of the police station, Sherlock wound the tattered old scarf around his throat and awkwardly pulled his jacket on one-handed, still holding the violin case “How did you kn-”

“That your parents cut you off? That they’re attempting that Tough Love rubbish? Mycroft, of course, he called to let me know you fucked up again and it’s all my fault, as usual.”

“I’ll correct him,” Sherlock now hurried after Victor. “I promise. How could this possibly be your fault, I haven’t seen you in months. How could I? You’ve been busy with your wedding preparations and I’ve-”

“Been busy getting loaded,” Victor said icily. “Is that how you make your living now? Are you a busker? I’m surprised you hadn’t sold that for a nickel bag.”

Sherlock clutched his violin case. “I like playing in the Tube,” he said defensively. “The acoustics are nice. I can practice my own compositions when no one is around.”

“And you make, what? Fifty quid? If you’re lucky? That you immediately shoot up your arm or snort up your nose? Jesus Christ, Sherlock… when is this going to stop?”

“Dunno,” Sherlock admitted “I don’t know if I can.” _Or want to…_

By the time the two men reached Victor’s car, it started to rain. “Get in,” Victor opened the passenger side door.

“I can take the bus.”

“I’m taking you back to Mycroft’s.”

“I’m… not staying with him anymore.”

“Of course you’re not,” Despite the rain, Victor made himself take two deep breaths before asking. “Where are you staying these days then?”

When Sherlock reluctantly gave the address, Victor said. “Are you joking? That’s down in Hackney, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not taking you there. Get in.”

“I’m fine, Victor. Just… leave me alone.”

“Would you get into the bloody car, it’s raining.”

“Will you take me home then?”

“Hackney is not _home_ , Sherlock.  You’re coming with me.”

“Oh, I’m sure Patricia would be ever so delighted to see me,” Sherlock started walking away from Victor. “I’ll take the bus.”

Victor roughly grabbed him by the arm and all but threw him into the car. “Fine,” Victor pushed his wet hair out of his eyes then started the engine. “It’s your funeral. But we’re taking the scenic route. We are going to have a conversation.”

“Oh, God, Victor,” there was more than a hint of a whine in Sherlock’s voice as he thumped his head against his headrest. “At least let me get high first before you make me discuss _feelings_.”

Victor merged into traffic. The rain now came down harder, the raindrops making a pleasant _plonk plonk plonk_ noise on the top of the car roof. The windshield wipers whipped back and forth. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the wipers. Back and forth, back and forth. Just like his addiction and sobriety. Back and forth.

Silence reigned for several minutes inside the car until Victor finally asked “What happened? You were doing so well…”

Sherlock shrugged, looking away. “Couldn’t sleep,” his shoulders collapsed forward as he wrapped his arms around his skinny waist. “My mind wouldn’t shut down, _doesn’t_ shut down. You know how it is, Victor. I got… I got _bored_.” 

“So you tried self-medicating again,” Victor was very familiar with this cycle. Wearily and painfully familiar.  “Dammit, Sherlock. Why didn’t you call your counselor when this started again? Why didn’t you call a doctor?”

“I did call a doctor! I called Dr. Ludlow. He gave me anti-anxiety meds, but I didn’t like how they made me feel. I didn’t like feeling sluggish, I wanted to feel… well, I complained so he gave me Oxy. That didn’t work, so we kept experimenting unt-”

“Until he put you on morphine so you would just shut up and leave him alone,” Victor said grimly. ”Of course that’s why your parents cut you off. You were using their money to bribe the doctor into writing you a prescription for morphine.”

“I can’t shut my mind on and off like a tap, Victor,” Sherlock flared. “Before I started on the morphine, I had been awake for three days in a row. I was desperate.”

“You should have called me.”

“Well, with cake-tastings and flower-selections I figured you would be busy.” 

“Sherlock,” Victor gripped the steering wheel very tightly. “I want to be friends with you, I do but you are making it very difficult.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be friends with you,” Sherlock sounded very much like a sulky little boy.

It was definitely not the first time Sherlock had regressed to childish behavior. Today Victor decided he’d had enough. “Your selfishness knows no bounds, does it?” he said tightly. “You are the only one in the world who is brilliant and misunderstood. You are the only one in the entire God-forsaken universe who has had tragedy befall  you. I mean, who really gives a damn how this makes your parents feel? Or how you’re pissing your genius and your gifts away? A busker in the Tube? Really, Sherlock? This, this is how you want your life to be? A street musician with a drug habit.”

“There is nothing wrong with being a musician.”

“You should be writing symphonies! Or curing cancer… or… something more. You are something more and I am tired of trying to make you see that.”

“No one asked you to,” Sherlock seethed. “I am not a charity case. I am well aware of what I am capable of, I just don’t want to…” he trailed off, broke his eyes away from the windshield wipers, stared out the window, watched the rain fall down. “I feel like there’s something wrong with me, Victor,” he said quietly. “There’s something latched onto me, dark, dangerous… that yes, I could be more, more than _this_ … but it wouldn’t be _good_.”

“That’s your decision,” Victor tried to harden himself, tried to tell himself not to coddle him, not to enable him. “You get to decide how to use your gifts and talents.”

“I imagine how to murder my friends and family and how to get away with it as a mental exercise,” Sherlock traced a falling raindrop trickling down the car window with his finger. “Do you know what I was thinking about for three days, for _three days_ before I got on morphine again? I was planning  how to simultaneously break into the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Buckingham Palace. I was obsessing over it, Victor.”

“It was the sleep deprivation.”

“The sleep deprivation was caused by the obsession.”

“You need to channel your intellect into something worthwhile. Then you’ll stop obsessing.”

“I could do it.”

“Yes, I know you can, I’ve been trying to tell you for yea-”

“No, I mean I could break into the Tower, the Bank and the Palace. All at once.”

“Jesus,” Victor said. “Nothing I say to you, none of it has sunk in, has it?”

Sherlock slunk down in his seat. “I think that shoe belongs on the other foot, don’t you?”

“You’re making excuses, you’re not… _dark and dangerous_. You’re just… lazy. You like being high. Fine. Just fine. Get high. Dick around in the Tube. Play _Canon in D_ and whatever the bleeding tourists want to hear. Until someone either steals your violin or you get desperate and sell it to pay for your next fix, the latter being more likely. I’m done, Sherlock, I’m just _done_. You don’t give a _damn_ what you’re doing to me. So just do it, do what you like. Destroy yourself. Just don’t expect me to watch anymore.”

“Why would I expect anything from you anymore?” Sherlock said as Victor turned off the motorway, heading towards Hackney. “You’re getting married. To a _girl_ ,” he nastily pointed out. “You’re going to have children, have a nice house in the suburbs and have a perfectly ordinary life. Why would I expect you… why would anyone expect you to stay with someone like _me_?”

“Don’t try to  make me feel guilty Sherlock Holmes, it won’t work.”

“It already has,” Sherlock said. “You’re already regretting what you said. Don’t apologize. Never apologize for telling the truth. At least, for once, you can be honest about _something_. After all, it’s not as if you can be honest about yourself, can you?” 

“This isn’t about me,” Victor forced himself to lay off the accelerator. Anger caused him to start speeding. “But if you’re going to make comparisons, I got my act together. I don’t use anymore.”

“You’re still an addict. You just don’t use drugs anymore. At least, not illegal ones.” Sherlock paused for a beat then asked “Still taking the little blue pills before you fuck Patricia?”

“I’m warning you, Sherlo-”

“You have nothing you can threaten me with anymore, Victor. Let me out at the next stop.”

Victor pulled over at the first opportunity he had. “My father was right,” he couldn’t resist one last barb “You are just a fucking worthless junkie fag, aren’t you?”

Sherlock exited the vehicle and disappeared into the rain without looking back.

Victor looked down and groaned.

Sherlock had left his violin behind.  

Victor drove around the dodgy neighborhood several times, looking, searching, longing to find him one more time, to say _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m just so angry, I’m so tired of your self-destruction, let’s do it, let’s do what you suggested a year ago and fucking leave this shithole city, I want to be_ myself, _I want to be with you in all your desperate, damaged glory_ … but he couldn’t find him. It was raining too hard and the area simply too terrifying.

He did text Mycroft:

 _If you give a shit about your brother, you better go fetch him._  
He’s living in Hackney. I have his violin.  
He’s in a bad way but I’m done.  
Congratulations, you get your way.  
I won’t see him again. - VT

He tossed the mobile into the seat Sherlock had vacated and slowly drove back home, hoping maybe Sherlock hadn’t heard his parting shot…

… but two days later, he found out Sherlock did indeed hear the last insult and took it to heart.

“My brother is in hospital,” Mycroft silkily informed Victor without even saying hello when he answered his mobile.

“Rehab?”

“No.”

“Overdose?” Victor sank back down on his bed. Thank God Patricia was out of town this week for her Hen’s Weekend with her bridesmaids and other girlfriends.

“Yes. Intentional.”

“What?”

“My brother, Victor, decided to try to  take his own life. Needless to say, it was one of the few times he failed in one of his endeavours .”

“What?” Victor sprang to his feet, tears pricking his eyes. “No… he wouldn’t.”

“Yes, he would. He did. Fortunately he did not succeed.”

“Is he alright?”

“What do you think?” there was a little heat in Mycroft’s voice, for once. “He’s in a psychiatric ward, in restraints. Does that sound _alright_ to you?” 

 _There’s something latched onto me, dark, dangerous… that yes, I could be more, more than_ this _… but it wouldn’t be_ good…

“This is my fault,” Victor’s voice hitched.

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft’s voice was again smooth as ice and ten times colder. “I’ve asked you multiple times now to stay away from my brother. The one time I ask you to go to him, to help him because you were the only one that still mattered to him… let’s see, what were your last words to him? Oh yes, ‘ _fucking worthless junkie fag_ ,’ correct?”

“Is he talking?” _Did he ask for me?_

“In his sleep.”

“Mycroft, I’m sorry, I thought-”

“No. You didn’t. You didn’t think. I have asked you in the past, now I’m telling you. Stay away from my brother, Victor. Or else watch the precious façade you have so carefully built up over the years come shattering down. A little birdie told me you had a job offer that would relocate you to America. New York to be precise, yes?”

Victor never knew for sure what Mycroft exactly did for a living. Sherlock had always called him “The British Government”, but he always thought that was some sort of nickname he used to tease him. The Holmes brothers did take the piss out of each other regularly… now though, a darker suspicion raced through his mind.

“Yes.”

“Take the job,” Mycroft said crisply. “Oh and my PA will be by to fetch Sherlock’s violin.”

He rang off without a goodbye.

Victor wandered over to the bedroom window, still holding the mobile limply in his hand.

He stared out, at the all shops painted in their funky bright colors, all the people wandering around, chatting, and laughing. Having a perfectly nice Sunday.

What lay  hidden behind their bright façades? 

Victor leaned his forehead on the glass. Wondered what to do with the rest of his leftover life.

_Goodbye Sherlock…_

**

19 July 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Sunday afternoon  
2:25 PM

When the door clicked shut after Victor took his leave, Sherlock opened his eyes, fished his cigarettes and lighter out of his jacket pocket, snatched up Violet’s tea cup (still three-quarters full of tea) and made his way up to the rooftop. The only place he was allowed to smoke.

He didn’t complain. He knew that because of his newly acquired heroin addiction he currently had a free pass to smoke. Everyone would rather have him risk cancer than to start using again. The least he could do was take his methadone with minimal complaint and smoke outside.

He took his jacket off in the summer heat, laying it on the rooftop. Then he caved and unbuttoned his shirt as well, peeling it off. He lay down on top of his jacket, used his shirt as a pillow and kicked off his expensive leather shoes and removed his socks. He lit up, inhaled deeply, exhaled just as deeply and tamped the ashes into Violet’s tea cup.   

He closed his eyes again, enjoying the taste of tobacco, the feel of his lungs filling with nicotine-poisoned smoke. The heat of the unrelenting sun on his skin… might end up with a bit of sunburn tomorrow, but he didn’t care… he threw his arm over his eyes, wishing he had brought a pair of sunglasses up with him…

Wishing he would have said to Victor what he wanted to when he had the chance…

_I told you so… I warned you that you would be unhappy with your choices…_

He had smoked four cigarettes when he heard the creaking of the skylight window opening. The wind brought to him the faint scent of witch hazel and coconut oil.

“While I appreciate the concern, I am in no mood for any tedious heart-to-hearts right now, my dear Violet,” Sherlock informed her, eyes still closed.

The smell of witch hazel and coconut oil disappeared to be replaced by the scent of soap and good cologne. He could hear the heavier footsteps of a man walking towards him instead of the dainty, feminine tread of his flat-mate.

 _Well played_ , _Agent Hunter_ Sherlock thought. _This is no job for a flat-mate… but for a best friend._

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said, still keeping his eyes closed.

“Hey,” John sat down next to Sherlock. “Thirsty?”

“As I said when I thought you were Violet, while I appreciate the concern, I am in no mood for any tedious heart-to-hearts.”

“Who said anything about having any heart-to-hearts? Thought you might be thirsty. It’s hot as hell up here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened an eye. Saw John sitting next to him, wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans, but rumpled and comfortable-looking, not sleek and stylish like Victor’s clothes. John held out a full bottle of water to him. Condensation ran down the bottle and dripped onto the rooftop. John held a half-full water bottle in his other hand.

Sherlock took stock of John’s current condition: _Blood-shot sclera, bags under the eyes themselves, unshaven, chapped lips, drinking excessive amounts of water due to dehydration not due to heat… he is bent over just slightly and he was sucking on a peppermint breath mint only moments ago… mildly upset stomach…_

“Recovered from last night’s bender?”  He dropped the cigarette into the disgusting tea-cup, now overflowing with ash and cigarette butts.

“More or less,” John said as Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, coughing as he did while reaching for his pack and lighter.

“Yeah have another then,” John sighed. “That’s a grand idea.”  

Sherlock bit back a nasty retort and took the proffered bottle from him. He had a feeling his free smoking pass was about to expire soon.

However the water tasted cool and clean and it felt wonderful going down his parched throat. “So,” Sherlock screwed lid back on the bottle. “What exactly has my dear flat-mate told you?” 

“Not much,” John said lightly, drinking from his own water bottle. “Just that your ex, who was your first _everything_ , dropped by out of the blue with a case involving the Earl.”

“Yes, that sums up the situation tidily,” Sherlock lay back down again, closing his eyes.

“And where are we at with this?” John asked.

“I need more data on Jepthro Rucastle. All I know about him is he is an _haute couture_ designer who married the Earl’s cousin, Lady Elise. It is imperative I interview Alice, his daughter before we proceed.”

“Right,” John stretched out his legs. “But I was talking about your ex.”

Sherlock blew an annoyed raspberry. “That’s where I’m at with my… with Victor. He was merely the messenger. My client is Alice Fowler nee Rucastle or rather Rutledge since she changed her name when she moved to America.”

“So you’re not going to see him again? Victor?”

“Best not to, don’t you think? I’m supposed to be Violet’s…”

“Boyfriend.”

“Yes, yes, that… that stupid _title_ to indicate I am in an exclusive relationship with her. It would not do to risk blowing our cover story by hanging around my…”

“Ex.”

“Victor,” Sherlock lifted his head up enough to glower at John. “Stop interrupting me.”

“Sorry,” John said in that tone of voice that meant he very well was not sorry. Not one little bit. “So… boys then.”

“What?”

“You… you fancy boys, err, men, then right?”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all,” John said mildly.

“You have always been the most dreadful liar.”

“Fine, if you must know… Lestrade and I have had a running bet for the past few years. He said boys, I said girls.”

“Why did you say girls… hang on,” Sherlock sat up again. “You two have a bet about _me_?”

“I said girls because of The Woman, of course,” John said, meaning Irene Adler. “And Janine… though she ended up not being very nice in the end. Selling those all those lies to the rags.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said through pursed lips, reaching up to check his neck out of habit. It had been several months since he had an outbreak of hives, a psychosomatic reaction caused by his utter loathing of the press. He had been practising practicing a technique were he simply imagined each and every reporter’s and photographer’s head exploding from all the stupid their skulls contained.

So far, the technique had worked beautifully whenever he encountered an overeager rookie reporter or cynical paparazzi. Not to mention… it was so much fun. Imagining their tiny little heads popping, like a spot squeezed by a teenager.

John pretended not to notice Sherlock feeling the back of his neck “And Violet, don’t argue with me, Sherlock, you’re a bit smitten with her,” John smirked.

“Another stupid word,” Sherlock grumbled. “I simply enjoy her company. She’s interesting.”

“And you think she’s pretty, you even said so.”

“I said she had pretty _eyes_ , John.”

“Like I said, you’re smitten.”

“Am not,” Sherlock said like a sulky little boy.

John grinned. It wasn’t often he could take the mickey out of Sherlock so he took his shots when he could. “Please. If she had pigtails, you’d be pulling them.”

Sherlock pushed the memory of pulling Violet’s hair when they were fighting over his Smartphone out of his head.

“Why are you always so fascinated with my nonexistent love life John?”

“Well, it’s not exactly nonexistent, is it? Your love life. Since Molly is… well because of you, she’s… erm…”

“Eating for two?” Sherlock’s sneer was razor sharp, daring John to continue teasing him, promising it wouldn’t end well for John if he did.

“Err, yes…but I didn’t mention _that_ to Greg.”

“Wise decision,” Sherlock said as an image of a pregnant Molly in her wedding gown surfaced in his mind. But he didn’t push that particular memory away… she had looked so radiant, so happy… she deserved it.

John’s voice invaded his thoughts again. “But if Victor is truly your ex, as in ex-boyfriend, well, I suppose I’m out fifty quid then.”

“You bet fifty quid on whether or not I preferred men to women and vice-versa?” Sherlock rested his head back on his wadded up shirt. “Who gambled on whether or not I preferred both?” When John didn’t respond, Sherlock said “I know all about the pool you all had created when you insisted I get a flat-mate after you and Mary got engaged. You all started betting on how long the poor sods would last. I believe Mrs. Hudson won the last pool?”

“You kicked out your last flat mate on purpose so Mrs. Hudson would win the pools.”

“Very perceptive,” Sherlock said magnanimously. “So, who bet on me being bisexual?”

“Violet,” John grumbled. “She said both... ahh, she _cheated_ ,” he groaned, remembering she was a profiler and how she had spied on Sherlock in the past. 

“No,” Sherlock purred “She _observed_ … but who said ‘married to his work’?”

“Molly.”

“Then I do believe everyone best pay Mrs. Lestrade her winnings.”

“You prat,” John shook his head. “We’ll split it down the middle. Half to Violet, half to Molly.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Sherlock kept his eyes closed and laced his fingers over his bare chest.

Victor had run his hands over his bare chest only a short while ago… _delete_ … 

As if John could read his thoughts, he asked “But do you want to see him again? Victor?”

 _Yes_ , his treacherous body cried out. He forced his intellect to over-ride the body and its mundane wants. “No. Not only would his presence jeopardize Violet’s safety, he would also only serve as a distraction to my work. I must be completely focused with this case, John. I can’t risk any more mistakes like I have in the past, like with Magnussen and Moriarty. With the Earl involved, I can’t afford a single misstep. I trust Violet has brought you up to speed regarding how the Earl factors into all of this?” 

“She has,” John said, his finger itching to pull a trigger. After accidentally overhearing how the Earl had tortured and abused Sherlock when he was just a little boy, John knew he could kill the Earl just quickly as Sherlock killed Magnussen.

But Sherlock had killed Magnussen only because by Christmastime, there were literally no more options left to save Mary or John. Unlike Sherlock, John actually wanted to kill the Earl for the exact same reasons stated in the lyrics of an old American country-western song… _just to watch a man die…_

John kept that dark thought to himself.

“Good, then we should get started right away,” Sherlock gracefully rose to his feet. “There’s loads of prep work to be done. Research. We cannot be caught with our trousers around our ankles with this one, John,” Sherlock picked up his crumpled jacket and aubergine shirt. “Too many mistakes have been made in the past because the case became personal. If we do this correctly, if we solve this cold case, everything could fall like dominoes. Rucastle could fall on the Earl who could fall on Moriarty.”

“Then it would be over,” John breathed, getting up as well “Truly and for real over.”

 _Oh John, it’s never over_ , Sherlock smiled at his naïve friend. _The game goes on forever. We’re just the current contenders._

“Yes, John, then it would be over,” he said instead. “Until then, the game is on, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me happy... thanks for reading! :^)


	5. The British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can’t I be normal for just a little while? I know it won’t last, I know I’ll get bored with it, being like everyone else, but… can’t I just fit in and be a part of the world instead of watching and deducing it? I just want a bit of break from being different, is that alright...?”

Chapter Five: The British Government

20 July 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Monday afternoon  
4:25 PM

Sherlock jogged up the stairs to his flat, two at a time, with police files tucked under his arms.

Two separate cases to be exact. How _fun_. How _exciting_.

Just what he needed to scrub both Victor Trevor and Molly Hooper ( _Molly Lestrade_ he mentally corrected himself) out of his head.

The first file, not very thick, was the police report filed when Lady Elise took her leave of this world. Sherlock was not interested so much in the written report, probably composed by some inept moron who automatically assumed suicide without conducting a thorough investigation.

On the surface, it did seem like an open-and-shut case: woman with documented mental health issues opened her wrists with a razor. Case closed.

But the dark creatures always swam below the surface, didn’t they?

No, Sherlock was more interested in the autopsy report, what the mortician had to say. Or more importantly, what the science had to say.

The second file was much fatter. Violet had been right, the third burned-up body found in the West End had been ruled a homicide. Fortunately, this was not DI Dimmock’s case. Normally it would have belonged to Lestrade, but as he was on his Sex Holiday, it had been assigned to Detective Inspector Walter “White” Mason. If Lestrade had started going grey prematurely then poor DI Mason must had been born with white hair, hence the obvious nickname.

DI Mason still was a dunce in Sherlock’s estimation. Sherlock also disliked him intensely . But at the very least he wasn’t nearly as bad as the other DI’s, such as Dimmock. And Mason was bright enough to ask for the services of Sergeant Alexis “Alex” MacDonald. She had been promoted into Lestrade’s team after Sergeant Sally Donovan made her ignominious transfer to a different division after she attempted to discredit Sherlock one last time, with disastrous results. Only this time, her arrogance didn’t cause a faked suicide but the slow, agonizing death of her former partner and one-time-lover, the forensics analyst Phillip Anderson.

Last Sherlock had heard, after Anderson’s  family finally and mercifully pulled the plug, Donovan had resigned from The Met after accepting a position in Cardiff.

At a private investigation firm.

The irony was not lost on Sherlock.

At any rate, after years of Donovan’s abuse, MacDonald was a blessing, really. Small, slender and quiet as a mouse. Bright enough. Had at least of modicum of common sense. Kept her mouth shut until she could prove what she was saying. Also kept her private opinions private.

One look at her tightly held lips and how she held her compact frame in a constant defensive pose, and Sherlock immediately deduced she had been abused as a child. Hit and then told children should be seen and not heard.

Apparently in one aspect, she hadn’t realized she was an adult and her voice deserved to be heard… but Sherlock knew better than anyone how the past is not something easily evaded.

Or outgrown.

But he appreciated her silence. Made her presence tolerable at crime scenes. Sometimes he even forgot she was there.

While snooping around the latest crime scene earlier this morning, he had even jumped when she spoke. “Need a lift?”

When he whirled around, she merely looked at him, unperturbed.

“No, thank you. I’ll catch a cab,” Sherlock had been shocked into politeness.

She had only shrugged and said “’K,” and walked off.

Intrigued, Sherlock had trailed after her briefly. “You grew up in New Zealand.”

“Yep.”

And that had been the extent of today’s conversation.

Sherlock had been a little peeved she hadn’t been awed that he’d deduced her nation of origin after only hearing her speak fewer  than four syllables. So he lost interest, hailed a cab and went to Scotland Yard for more research and to acquire copies of the police reports under his arm.

He dug into his trouser pockets for his keys, then in his suit jacket, grunting in annoyance. So inconvenient, summer. Too blasted hot for the Belstaff, which had very deep pockets.

Finally finding his keys, he let himself in.

“Violet, I need you,” he barked before he realized he had a guest.

A guest who had bolted from his seat on  the sofa and cried out delightedly “Sherlock!” and now was hugging him around the waist.

“Oh, um, Archie, hello,” Sherlock said, trying to hold onto his files.

Archie released Sherlock and beamed at him. Ever since John and Mary’s wedding, the young boy had made Sherlock his hero.

Sherlock didn’t quite understand why the boy adored him.

“Did you come from a crime scene? Did you come from a _murder_?” Archie’s eyes glowed.

“Archie,” Violet came into view, carrying two glasses, one filled with water, one with some horrible orange fizzy drink the boy liked. _“En français s'il vous plait.”_

“Aw,” the boy whined but Violet arched an eyebrow and gave him a very ‘Miss Smith’ _Do As I Command_ Look. “Fine,” Archie huffed then asked Sherlock where he was today with such an excruciatingly bad accent that Sherlock actually visibly winced.

“Sherlock,” Violet’s voice was light, but her words were not as she effortlessly switched to German: “ _Seien Sie nett_.”

Be nice.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed then told Archie in slow but perfect French that yes, he had been investigating a murder.

“ _Wicked_ ,” Archie grinned.

Violet gave up. “I think we can knock off a bit early today,” she said. “You worked really hard today, Archie. I’m very pleased with your progress.”

“Thanks! Uh… I mean _Merci_!”

He pronounced it as “mercy”. Violet and Sherlock exchanged silent, pained looks.

“It’s _merci_ , not mercy,” Violet corrected the lad. “ _Répétez après moi en français s'il vous plait.”_

“But you said we were done for tod-“ Archie started to complain but stopped in mid-whine when he saw Miss Smith arch her left eyebrow up. “OK, OK… MER… see.”

“We’ll work on pronunciation more when you get back from your holiday,” Violet gave up. “Now,” she added firmly as she walked over and handed Archie the orange fizzy drink. “Just because you’re going on holiday doesn’t mean you’re not going to have homework.”

“Aw, come on, Miss Smith,” the boy whinged.

“It’s not dreadful, I promise. It might actually be quite fun. While you and your parents are visiting France, I expect post cards from all the cool places you’re going to see.”

“That’s not so bad, I guess,” Archie said dubiously. “But… do they have to be in French? The post cards?”

“ _Naturellement_.”

“Damn.”

“The more post cards I receive,” Violet said airily, “The more willing I may be to talk Sherlock into taking you along on a case one of these days.”

“A murder case!”

“No,” Violet said just as Sherlock said “Yes.”

“NO,” Violet said emphatically. “One of his other cases, that doesn’t involve corpses.”

Both Sherlock and Archie sulked.

“Of course, I could tell your mother it’s far too dangerous for you to go along on any cases.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” both Sherlock and Archie conceded.

Violet smiled indulgently.  “Finish your drink then maybe Sherlock will let you play on his computer for a bit before your mother arrives.”

Archie inhaled the beverage in a giant gulp then asked Sherlock “Do you have any new pictures of maggots on your computer?” as he handed his empty glass to Violet, who had been sipping her water.

“No, but I have been doing some research on flesh-eating bacteria,” Sherlock said, handing the files to Violet, causing her to slosh water onto the floor and nearly drop the other glass. “Come along Archie, I’ll show you.” 

“Awesome!”

Mildly irritated she had been treated like a pack mule; Violet found she could only shake her head as she went to put the files in a safe location and the glasses in the kitchen. _Boys…_

Too soon, at least as far as “the boys” were concerned, Archie’s mother had arrived to collect him. “He’s been doing really well,” she said, handing a cheque to Violet. “I am so glad Mary recommended you to us. He could barely read French a month or so ago.”

“He does need to practice his pronunciation,” Violet said, tucking the check into the pocket of her khakis capris. “Make a point to have him speak French while you’re on holiday. Make it fun, make it a game. I think actually being in France will help him loads. But he is doing really well. I’m very proud of him. He’s working so hard.”

Archie’s mother smiled conspiratorially at Violet “I think,” she whispered, looking at Sherlock and Archie hunched over Sherlock’s laptop “It helps to have him study in his hero’s flat.”

“Whatever works,” Violet winked.

“Archie,” his mother called out. “Say goodbye to Sherlock. Time to go.”

“Aw Mum! Five more minutes!”

“Now, young man!”

“’Bye Sherlock,” Archie looked like Christmas had been cancelled.

“Cheer up, it’s only for three weeks,” Sherlock said.

“They’re making me go to EuroDisney,” he confided in a whisper.

“That’s dreadful,” Sherlock whispered back. “Try faking a stomachache that day.”  

“OK,” the boy said hopefully.

“Archie, we’re going to be late…”

“Bye Sherlock, bye Miss Smith,” Archie said, hastening to his mother’s side.

“Have fun, don’t forget my postcards.”

“I’ll send two a week… three even!”

Finally Archie and his mother departed. Violet sighed “He really has improved,” she said, in her “real voice”, as Sherlock mentally called her American accent. “He can read and write in French just fine. He can understand it if you speak slowly. His pronunciation _sucks_. I can see why his teacher insisted on summer school.” She pulled the cheque out of her pocket. “And you have got to talk to your damn brother about unfreezing my bank accounts. Here’s another check I can’t deposit or cash.”

“As I recall,” Sherlock carried his laptop from his desk to his chair and sat down, crossing his legs. Sitting in what Violet called “Indian style.” “You do have access to fifty million pounds.”

Last March, her former superior Robert Carson alias Mr. Carruthers had asked Sherlock outside for a smoke and private chat. In that time, in a brilliant, cold-blooded move, Violet had wired all the dirty money she and Carson had laundered out of the criminals’ bank accounts to Jack Woodley’s private off-shore account. Word hit the street immediately: Jack Woodley was a thief. Wanted dead or alive, preferably dead.

When Violet had killed Jack, the hit was up to six million. Shame Violet couldn’t collect that fee.

“That’s blood money,” she scowled. “I’m not touching it.”   

“There’s the money you took out of the safe at your old insurance agency before it blew up.”

Violet shook her head again. “No, that’s _yours_. I gave that money to you. I know how much it costs you to keep this building running, especially since one of the apartments is still sitting empty. You’re not exactly making money on this place, you know.”

Of course Violet would know he had bought Baker Street. This was not an advertised fact. Even John still didn’t know Sherlock owned the block of flats now. 

“I don’t understand what  you need money for in the first place,” Sherlock murmured, closing down his documents on flesh-eating bacteria and starting a Google search for Jepthro Rucastle. “Or why it matters whether or not I’m making a profit on Baker Street. I’m not exactly destitute as you very well know.”

“I’m not a gold-digger either, Sherlock. I feel like I’m leeching off of you.”

“Not really. Every penny of mine you spend, I include  in an expense report I send to Mycroft every month, plus an additional and very exorbitant fee for my time and service to Crown and Country for monitoring such a _dangerous_ person of interest. Whatever you need, I can provide.”

“That’s… actually kind of nice of you, which is weird… but… anyway, it’s about independence, Sherlock. I’ve always paid my own way. I like just going and shopping without having to wait for you like a Stepford Wife and ask for your bank card.”

“I really don’t mind. If it truly bothers you that bloody much, I’ll add your name to my accounts and have a card issued in your name,” Sherlock’s eyes never left his laptop screen as he skimmed through gossip and fashion sites, giving himself a crash course on Rucastle. 

“No! Sherlock, that’s not the point. I am not comfortable spending your money. Not to mention listening to you bitch about whatever I buy after I go grocery shopping.”

“Oh for pity’s sake… fine. _I’ll_ do the shopping so you won’t have the extreme trauma of using my money. Even though I honestly Don’t. Care.”

“ _You_ do the shopping?”

“I am capable, you know.”

“So, you would really go and buy me tampons every month?”

Sherlock’s fingers froze over the keyboard “I’ll ring Mycroft now.”

“ _Thank you_.” Violet took off her fake eyeglasses and pulled her hair out of its tightly wound bun. Shaking her curls loose, she asked “What time is the Skype date with Alice tonight?”

“Soon,” Sherlock checked his watch “7:00 our time, 2:00 her time. John and Mary will be here at 6:30,” he reached for his mobile. “Just enough time to perform this chore for you.”

“I said thank you, what more do you want?” Violet picked up the skinny file off the big table and made her way to the chair that would always be known as “John’s.” She sat cross-legged in “John’s chair” and opened the file in her lap.

Sherlock made a big pretence  of looking for Mycroft’s name in his contact list, then hitting the dial button, then putting the mobile to his ear. Violet kept her eyes glued to Lady Elise’s file and started chewing on a pen.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft’s voice drawled into Sherlock’s ear. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I do confess I’ve been enjoying Sunday dinners without you, listening to Mummy moan how it’s been months since she’s seen you. How you haven’t called nor emailed her.”

“Well then you are welcome for the opportunity I gave you to play the role of the Perfect Son on those Sundays,” Sherlock sniped back. “I need you to unfreeze Violet’s bank accounts. It’s an inconvenience for  both of us for her to wait for me to give her an allowance. Plus, I think she’s proven she’s not a flight risk. If she was going to kill me and run, she would have done so by now, don’t you think?”

“One can still hope, Sherlock.”

“Well, then you can give her a medal and a cash bonus if she does put a bullet in my brain.”

“And that escalated quickly,” Violet murmured under her breath. 

“In the meantime,” Sherlock started drumming his nails against the keyboard of his laptop. “You can still monitor her bank account activity electronically. What’s the problem?”

“Oh, other than they are bank accounts opened under a false name and the funds deposited in those accounts were generated from a money-laundering operation? None that I can see.”

“Mycroft…”

“Fine, I’ll do it. On one condition.”

“What?”

“Mummy and Daddy want to go see the _Oklahoma_ revival this coming Sunday…”

“What? NO, Mycroft, why? They’ve seen it loads of times, surely they can’t-”

“They can, they will and they want their beloved _William_ to take them.”

Sherlock groaned.

But Mycroft wasn’t finished. “And they want to meet Miss Smith. Mummy’s so pleased you met A Girl. Needless to say, she’s planning your wedding. Mummy thinks your colors should be teal and peach. The teal would really bring out the blue in your eyes .”

Sherlock covered the mouthpiece of his mobile. “My brother said he’ll unfreeze your bank accounts if you agree to accompany my parents and me to _Oklahoma_ next Sunday.”

Now Violet looked up, her eyes wide with horror, as if he had suggested she dance naked through Buckingham Palace. “You know, an allowance isn’t a terrible thing,” she said quickly. “I can sign my tutoring checks over to you.”

“False alarm, Big Brother, lovely chatting with you, must dash, two big cases, laters.” He hit the end button before Mycroft could utter another condescending syllable.

Mycroft stared at his mobile and shook his head. He put the mobile down on his massive desk and reached for a file. Seconds later however, the mobile hummed, moved slightly.

He glanced at it, saw that the text came from Sherlock. _Miss me already?_ He thought sardonically as he picked up the mobile, swiping the screen and entering the pass code.

The mobile unlocked and Sherlock’s message popped up:

Must meet with you face to face soon. Urgent - SH

Mycroft grimaced. Before he could text back, his housekeeper came in, pushing a tea trolley. “Everything alright, Mr. Holmes?”

“Fine, Mrs. Pringle,” Mycroft said dismissively as she served him a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.

Once she had left, Mycroft reached for a biscuit. Munching, he texted back:

Meet about what? - MH

He ate another biscuit, took a sip of tea, waiting for the response.

“Oh, I should have known,” he leaned back in his chair, running his thumb over the screen when Sherlock’s text appeared:

How much time is left for me to produce JM?  
How much time does VH have before MI-6 wants her?

Mycroft rubbed his forehead, debating. The old argument, the never-ending question…

How much does he tell Sherlock?

He texted his little brother back:

Tomorrow. Noon. Diogenes Club.  
Be on time and be alone – MH

He paused then sent a second text:

And by alone I mean ALONE.  
No Violet. No John. - MH

He put the mobile down on the desk, flipped it over so even if Sherlock responded, he wouldn’t see it right away.

He turned his chair around so he could look out the window. Admire the view of London from on high. A city of skyscrapers and palaces. There was no place in the world better than London. At least Mycroft and Sherlock could agree on that.

Mycroft turned back around and reached for his files again. _After we discuss Moriarty and Agent Hunter, I do believe I best have a little chat with Sherlock about his old friend Victor_. He frowned as he reached for a pen. _What on earth possessed that cockroach to return to England after all this time? And how do I convince him to leave again?_

Mycroft Holmes had more enemies than Sherlock realized, but like his brother, he viewed his enemies as whetstones to sharpen his intelligence. He never really hated his adversaries. Pitied them, yes of course. Hated, no. Not really.

He hadn’t even hated Charles Augustus Magnussen. Mycroft had viewed him as a very complicated and troublesome problem. His fastidious demeanor had been completely repulsed by Magnussen’s very disgusting habits. But he had been a worthy opponent. 

As cold as he was, as cutting as his words could be, Mycroft actually only hated three people.

Jim Moriarty, of course.

Mary Morstan Watson, naturally.

And Victor Trevor.

**

14 April 1995  
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ London residence  
Good Friday  
7:30 AM

“Mickey? _Mickey_!”

Mycroft pulled the pillow over his head. A serious and quiet young man, he rarely made mistakes. But staying in his childhood home over Easter Weekend definitely proved to be an enormous mistake… especially since his mother was insisting on waking him up at this ungodly hour. Most irritating since he spent most of the previous night smoking cigarettes while perusing files and maps, trying to determine if it was true, if there really was an _Aum Shinrikyo_ terrorist cell in London and if yes, if they planned on attacking the Underground as they had attacked a subway in Japan a month ago. The idea of a sarin nerve gas unleashed on the Tube during prime commuting hours made Mycroft’s flesh crawl…

But apparently his mother had more pressing matters that required his attention…

Despite the pillow over his head, Mycroft could still hear the knock on his childhood bedroom door. He lay   still. _Maybe they’ll leave me alone if I don’t answer…_

No such luck; his door creaked open. “Mike?” his father’s mild voice filled his small room. “Come on, son. Up and at ‘em. Breakfast’s ready.”

“I only went to bed a few hours ago,” Mycroft found himself whining like a sixteen year old boy instead of talking to his father like a grown man.

“Well,” his father chuckled. “Whose  fault is that, then?”

Mycroft sat up, his hair tousled. “I was _working_ , Father.”

“I think the British government can survive a few days without your contribution,” his father said, his voice light and cheery, but Mycroft clearly read the subtext. “Since it took them a year  to fully train you, I think they can spare you a few days to spend Easter with your family.”  

His father knew exactly what Mycroft did for the British government. He did not approve.

So did Sherlock. He did not care.

Mummy, as usual, was oblivious.

Thank God for small mercies.

But speaking of his idiot baby brother… “So is my idiot baby brother gracing us with his presence for Easter then? Is this what the fuss is all about? Is this why I’m not allowed to get any sleep? To clean a house for an idiot who won’t even notice and if he does, won’t care?”

“Mycroft,” now Father truly sounded cross. “Don’t call William an idiot.”

“Don’t call him William. He goes by Sherlock. Has since he was eight years old,” Mycroft reminded him as he also conceded defeat by pushing the duvet off  himself. He swung his skinny legs around and off the bed.

As he shoveled his feet into his slippers, his father asked, alarmed “Mike, have you lost more weight? It’s bad enough that Will- Sherlock eats like a bird. I don’t need two sons who-”

“I haven’t lost more weight,” Mycroft snatched his dressing gown off the peg next to his bed. And really, whoever invented twin beds should be shot. Mycroft had spent a good twenty minutes worrying whether or not he was going to fall off the mattress before drifting off to sleep.

“Well,” his father eyed him dubiously. “Just tuck in at breakfast, OK? It’ll make your mother happy… and keep her quiet.”

Father and son grinned at each other. Both were co-conspirators in the never-ending scheme of Keeping Mummy Happy and Quiet. Both loved the woman with all their hearts, and both knew she was an utter flake. A proper genius, without a crumb of common sense.

“Is breakfast at least a proper fry-up?” Mycroft couldn’t keep the whine out of his voice. “If I go down there and see only tea and porridge, I’m going straight back to bed and locking the door.”

“And either your brother or mother will pick the lock,” his father put his hands inside the pockets of his own dressing robe. “But rest assured. You will not go away from the table hungry.”

“Good,” Mycroft groused as he followed his father out of his bedroom. As they walked down the narrow hallway to the stairs, he asked “So when is the crowned prince coming anyway?”

“I’m picking him up at King’s Cross at noon,” Mr. Holmes paused at the top of the stairs. “Mike, listen, be nice to your brother this weekend, no listen to me now. I know you two like to take the piss out of each other. Your uncle Rudy and I did the same when we were young. But this is an important weekend for William-”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft automatically corrected his father. “And why?”

“Because he’s bringing a friend home from uni, that’s why.”

“A friend? Sherlock actually made a friend?”

“That’s what he told your mother, yes.”

“Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

“Well, he has one now apparently.”

“He doesn’t know how to make friends,” Mycroft still could not for the life of him wrap his mind around the concept of his peculiar and misanthropic brother having a friend. Or that someone nice and normal _wanted_ Sherlock as his friend.

“Well, he never had much of a chance to learn, did he? You were the only friend he ever really had but the age difference eventually got in the way. And he never really was around other ankle-biters his own age very much when he was little, was he?”

“That’s because Mummy ignored Dr. Scott’s advice and pulled him out of primary school to teach him herself,” Mycroft said darkly.

It was the closest anyone had dared to talk about _That Time_ in years.

Dr. Gloria Scott had been ordered to shred all the medical records she had written while she had treated Sherlock after the fire that ousted the family from the sprawling country estate to the suburbs of London…

And had disfigured the teenaged Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper…

… and eight year old Sherlock had started that fire, claiming he only wanted to scare Heathcliff into leaving him alone, to stop hurting him.

_That Time_ definitely was not a Good Time for anyone in the Holmes family. And it was not supposed to be spoken of, ever again. That was the deal struck after Heathcliff’s father finally learned how Heathcliff had been violating and torturing the littlest Holmes boy. _He_ would not press charges if _they_ would not press charges. Everything was to be swept under the rug.

In other words, _it never happened_.

Mr. Holmes’ face and voice became very stony indeed, as if Mycroft had uttered a foul curse word instead of the name of Sherlock’s childhood therapist. “William was too bright for traditional education. The only teacher who could keep up with him was your mother. And he had outpaced her by the time he was twelve.”

“So he’s a little parrot who can repeat whatever facts Mummy fed him. Doesn’t mean a damn thing if he can’t socialize like a normal person,” Mycroft knew sleep deprivation fueled his angry words. At the moment, he didn’t care.

He was tired of being cast as the villain in the ongoing family saga.

_I did the best I could at the time. I was fourteen years old and that psychopath threatened to convince his father to stop helping my father rebuild his finances. Father botched everything when he inherited the lot after Uncle Rudy died. Not only that, but he threatened to kill Sherlock if I didn’t stay out of his way. I watched him snap the neck of a pigeon just for fun. I knew he could do it, kill my little brother. What options did I have? I was a child myself…_

_I want him dead, Heathcliff. Someday, I’ll finish what Sherlock started…_

“Sorry,” Mycroft hung his head after an age had passed while his father only stared at him, disappointment etched in every line of his face. “I’m just really tired, Daddy.”

The childish epithet appeased Mr. Holmes. “You’re working too hard, son,” he put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. “They don’t own you. I’m glad you’re spending Easter with us, Mike, but you need to take a proper holiday. You’re young. Go have some fun.”

“I know, I will,” Mycroft lied. Yes, he was overworked… but _he liked it_.

“Come on. Let’s go placate your mother. Then I’ll make some excuse for you so you can sneak off for a little sleep before your brother gets here.”

“Deal,” Mycroft said just as he heard his mother call again “Mickey? Mickey? Will you come down here at once before breakfast gets cold?”

“And Wil-Sherlock making a friend is great progress for him,” Mr. Holmes slung his arm over Mycroft’s thin shoulders and walked down the stairs companionably with his eldest son.

“It is.”

“I think university has been good for him.”

As they reached the lounge, Mr. Holmes took his arm off Mycroft’s shoulder but pulled him closer by the sleeve of his dressing gown. Lowly, in his ear, so Mrs. Holmes wouldn’t hear, he said “And I know you did the best you could when all that… ugliness happened. Mike, I insist you stop beating yourself up about it.” When Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, Mr. Holmes added. “I can see it in your eyes that you do. You look sad when you think no one is watching.”  

Mycroft swallowed hard, blinked his eyes several times. _Caring is not an advantage._ He reminded himself of the first lesson he had been taught when he became “a minor government official.” He nodded. “I will,” he lied again.

“Good,” his father said “Because I feel guilty enough for the entire family.” He ruffled Mycroft’s hair just like he did when he had been a little boy. “Now, I need sustenance before I pick up Sherlock and his new friend. The good Lord knows I will need strength to face whatever  has decided to befriend our little Stormcrow, yes?”

Mycroft grinned. Little Stormcrow. That nickname will never die.

Probably because it was so fitting.

Smelling rashers and eggs and fried tomatoes, Mycroft decided he too felt hungry and would need a good feed in order to face whatever the hell Sherlock was dragging home.

And thank God he did. The minute Mycroft laid eyes on Victor Trevor; he knew the good-looking golden boy was not Sherlock’s friend…

But _boyfriend_. The boy didn’t _like_ Sherlock. He was utterly infatuated with him.

_Oh dear God…_ Mycroft quailed internally as he shook Victor’s hand and smiled politely at him. _Sherlock why do you insist on making your life more difficult than it needs to be?_

“Brother mine,” he breathed into Sherlock’s ear while Victor spoke to Mrs. Holmes, charming the socks off of her. “A word? In private? When convenient?”

“No,” Sherlock said in his usual contrary manner.

“I need a cig and I’m out,” Mycroft whispered, actually not lying.

Sherlock rolled his eyes “Why didn’t you just say so? Meet you out back in a bit,” and he scooped up Victor’s rucksack and told the blonde boy to follow him.

“Well, he is very nice!” Mrs. Holmes crooned “Has lovely manners, Victor.”

Mr. Holmes and Mycroft looked at each other over Mrs. Holmes’ head. Had a silent conversation in the way only a father and son could have.

Mr. Holmes knew he was not as bright as his sons or wife. But he felt that he often observed things his wife tended to miss. As Mrs. Holmes bustled back to the kitchen, nattering on under her breath all the preparations she needed to make for tonight’s meal, Mycroft told his father “I already told him I needed a word.”

“Yes… a word,” Mr. Holmes looked heartbroken. “It’s not that I care, if he, well, you know… oh it’s not like we should be surprised,” he looked up the stairs where Sherlock and Victor had just ascended a little while ago. “He has never showed any interest in girls. Or boys either, now that I think about it,” he muttered more to himself than his son.

_Wonder why?_ Mycroft thought cruelly but held his tongue.

“I just worry, that’s all. If he is with that boy in That Way…well, I want to be sure he’s at least a nice boy. Lovely manners can cover up a nasty personality.”

“I know. We’ll have a chat, Sherlock and I. It’ll be alright.”

Mr. Holmes nodded and walked off to his little study, humming under his breath.

Mycroft slipped out to the back garden, staring at the sandbox and swing-set their parents had set up when they had moved out here after the fire. Mycroft could never understand why. He had been too old for sandboxes and swing-sets.  And Sherlock never stayed in the back garden like he was supposed to, always climbing over the fence, exploring his new neighborhood with that damned old Irish Setter of his.

Hearing the backdoor creak open, Mycroft turned and saw his brother walking towards him. He needed a haircut; his black curls nearly touched his shoulders now.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said cheerfully, digging into his jeans pockets, producing cigarettes and a lighter. “Have you put on weight? I think you’ve gained at least five pounds since I saw you last.” 

“Do you wear your hair long now because you’re the girl in the relationship?” Mycroft said acerbically, taking a cigarette but taking out his own lighter.

Sherlock’s thin face twisted into an ugly scowl. “Oh you would try and twist this into something disgusting, wouldn’t you,” he put the cigarette into his mouth and lit up.

“Is he the reason why you didn’t come home for Christmas?”

“No, the reason was Mother and Father wanted to go back to the estate for Christmas.”

“We _always_ go back to the estate for Christmas. It’s tradition.”

“I hate that place.”

“It’s tradition. It makes Mummy happy. It creates memories.” 

“Yes, because I need more memories of that mausoleum,” Sherlock jeered at his brother. “To add to the _happy_ childhood memories I already have,” he exhaled smoke out of his nostrils and mouth, the curling smoke around his bony face making him look slightly demonic.

“It wasn’t always bad, Sherlock.”

“Good thing you’re inheriting the lot then, isn’t it? If it was me, I’d burn it to the ground.”

“Oh, finish what you started?”

“Yes.”

The baldness of Sherlock’s answer shocked Mycroft. “Then it is a good thing I am taking it over. It’d be a shame to punish a historical landmark for what people did inside  it.”

“How like you, Mycroft, to care about things instead of people.”

“Oh, you care about people now?”

“More than you do,” Sherlock fixed his mercurial eyes on his older brother. “Spoken to Elizabeth lately? I heard she got married recently? To a _lord_ , how lovely for her.”

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft restrained himself from striking his brother. How _dare_ he bring up his old university sweetheart? The one who had gotten away… or more accurately, the one he let go. “This isn’t about me, it is about you. How long have you been carrying on with him?”

“He’s my frie-”

“Do not lie to me, Sherlock Holmes. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Sulkily he said, “You can’t tell me who I can spend time with or who I can see.”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock by his t-shirt and hauled him closer to him. “I can when you’ve been smoking marijuana with him. The scent is in your hair and clothes. Your  pupils are dilated. You’re high.”

Sherlock unexpectedly grabbed Mycroft’s wrist and squeezed. Hard. It hurt. “Release me.”

Startled, Mycroft let go of Sherlock’s shirt. When Sherlock let him go, Mycroft took a step back and while rubbing his wrist, took a thorough look at his little brother.

Well, he wasn’t little anymore. He hadn’t been _little_ since he skyrocketed to six feet . He had hit his growth spurt when he turned into a sullen, uncommunicative sixteen year old. The rare occasions he actually did speak when he was a teenager, it had always startled Mycroft. Until he got used to the resonant baritone, that is. He had told himself to stop expecting to hear the birdlike chirping boy’s soprano… little Stormcrow indeed.

But he had always been painfully thin and frail, Sherlock. A walking, talking skeleton. Still easy to bully…. physically, at any rate, if one could catch him. He had never been strong as a child nor as a younger teen but he always had been _fast_.

He had been so thunderstruck at the appearance of Victor, the handsome golden boy making obvious sheep’s eyes at Sherlock; he hadn’t properly looked at his brother. Actually, he hadn’t properly observed his brother in ages.

Now he did. Yes, still tall. Yes, still thin.

But there were lines and curves in his arms that hadn’t been there before, actual muscle definition. Since Sherlock wore a thin blue t-shirt and had taken off the unflattering flannel shirt he had been wearing when he first arrived, Mycroft could see how his brother had filled out. He wasn’t skinny anymore, but solid, lean muscle.

But still, he was also high as a kite. That had to be addressed. Even though Mycroft had a feeling the marijuana was the reason why Sherlock had been somewhat… pleasant when he arrived home. But first, he needed to satiate his curiosity: “Did you take up rowing at uni?”

“No, dull. Boxing and fencing. I also swim laps whenever no one is using the pool, which is often since I’ve discovered I can skive off several of my classes as long as I arrive on the days I need to turn in a paper or take an exam. School is boring, it’s too easy. I…” he licked his lips “Thought about dropping out, actually.”

“Don’t you even consider that for one minute!” Mycroft exploded “Mummy and Daddy will never forgive you if you do. Plus, how do you plan on getting a decent job without a degree?”

“Mother and Father wouldn’t forgive me if I waste their money on schooling I don’t need. And will I really need a _job_ , brother dearest? You may inherit the house and property, but I know about the trust fund I’m entitled to when I turn twenty-five. And I know you’ve been making investments on my behalf. Will I ever really need to worry about money, _Mickey_?”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Mycroft fumed. “So what is your plan? Just get high with your boyfriend to stave off boredom and piss your inheritance away on drugs?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Mycroft. I said I was only thinking about dropping out. Their laboratories are fantastic. I’ve got some really great experiments in progress. One of the not-so-idiotic professors said I could even publish a paper about them. And that’s not my plan, by the way, to become a waster. I’m only nineteen, Mycroft. My whole life is ahead of me. I don’t have to decide today what I want to do when I grow up.”

“Oh so you do plan on growing up then? How nice.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m just having a bit of fun for once, Mycroft. Get off your high horse. Like you _never_ experimented in university. Like you never got smashed at a pub with those blokes from the rugby team you used hang around with, back when you used to have friends.”

“I still have friends, Sherlock.”

“Government approved friends,” Sherlock reminded his brother. “While you were at uni and at training for MI-6-”

“Quiet!” Mycroft hissed. “Mummy still doesn’t know.”

Sherlock spoke over his brother: “I was trapped in _that house_ ,” he pointed with his smoldering cigarette at the lovely two-story brick home “With that overbearing woman for years as she overcompensated for her failures as a mother when I was a little boy. All I did as a kid was _work_ , Mike. Work always came first. Study this. Memorize that. And under Mother’s tutelage, I studied _nothing_ about what I wanted to learn about and _absolutely_ _nothing_ that actually prepared me for the real world. Do you know how stupid I felt when Victor had to teach me how to balance a cheque book ledger?”

“Oh,” was all Mycroft could muster. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you? You’re off making tea for the Prime Minister. Why would you care if I could function on my own? And I can take care of myself, in case you’re interested. I’ll be gainfully employed someday. I have the rest of my life to work so I’ll make sure my job will be something I’ll enjoy and excel at. But right now…” Sherlock looked away from his brother, at the toes of his trainers. He shrugged “As long as my grades are good, I figure, why not? Why not have a little fun. Why not, for a little bit anyway, just do what other blokes my age do? Why not just be…?” 

“Normal,” Mycroft finished Sherlock’s sentence for him in a soft voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as if he was confessing a mortal sin. “Can’t I be normal for just a little while? I know it won’t last, I know I’ll get bored with it, being like everyone else, but… can’t I just fit in and be a part of the world instead of watching and deducing it? I just want a bit of break from being _different_ , is that alright?”

Mycroft puffed on his cigarette, staring sympathetically at his brother.

“Well… say _something_ ,” Sherlock huffed, the silence whittling away his limited patience.

“Very well, I will. You won’t be able to get away with it forever, acting normal because it would just be that. _An act_. Eventually you won’t be able to stand the idiocy you observe and you’ll open your big mouth to show off and it will just like your first year at primary school all over again. None of the other kids will like you, _William_.”

“Uni is nothing like primary school.”

“Uni is _exactly_ like primary school, the same childish jealousies and insecurities. The only difference is that the lessons are harder. Once they realize how brilliant you really are, they will resent you, Sherlock.  Of course, I can understand how you’d rather have your _intelligence_ be outed. Is it cozy inside the closet with Victor, Sherlock?”

“You don’t have to make it sound… dirty,” Sherlock mumbled, still staring at his shoes. “It’s not like that. It’s not like _that_ at all.”

_Ah. Still a virgin_ , Mycroft smirked, completely misreading his brother’s discomfort. “Does Victor think you’re like everyone else? Or is this an act for him as well?”

“Oh no,” Sherlock’s face lit up as he finally looked up. “Victor knows my mind is superior to everyone else’s in every single way possible. I tutor him in chemistry.”

“Speaking of chemistry, did Victor give you the drugs?”

Sherlock scowled, perturbed that the conversation had circled back to _that_. “Yes.”

“Did you two get high on the train coming here?”

“Yes.”

“That was stupid. You could have been caught and arrested.”

“But we weren’t and we won’t and _relax_ Mycroft. It’s just for a laugh, really. It’s not like we’re going to start snorting coke or anything stupid like that. I’ve got this under control, Big Brother. Stop being a fusspot about everything.”

The back door swung open. Sherlock and Mycroft whirled around, hiding their cigarettes behind their backs as their mother shouted “William, you’re being a very poor host to your friend Victor. Leaving him alone in your bedroom… are you two _smoking_?” 

“No,” Mycroft said automatically as Sherlock said at the same time “It was Mycroft,” as he dropped his cigarette behind his back. 

“Mycroft Holmes!” their mother shrieked at him.

“I’ll get you for this,” Mycroft scowled at Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned and strolled away, whistling, stopping to kiss his mother on her cheek.

_She should have smelled the tobacco on his breath_ , Mycroft thought sourly as his mother began to shout statistics about cigarette-related deaths at him.

Sherlock meanwhile cut through the kitchen and lounge, feeling as light and happy as only a nineteen year old who thinks he’s in love can possibly feel. He took the steps up two at a time, until he reached the top and turned into his bedroom.

Victor stood hunched over his old desk, looking at the framed photographs. He smiled when Sherlock came in and shut the door. “You were right. Your mum’s a total airhead.”

“Told you so.”

“Sweet, though. I think she’s great.”  

“That makes one of us,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, locking the door. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Thought Mike just wanted a cig, turned out he wanted to _lecture_ me.”

“No big deal,” Victor picked up one of the picture frames. “I’ve just been going through your shit while you were gone. Is this you?” he showed Sherlock a picture of himself and his beloved old dog, Redbeard. When Sherlock nodded, flushing slightly, Victor chuckled “You were a scrawny little git when you were a kid, weren’t you?” Victor set the picture down again and picked a different one up as Sherlock kicked off his trainers. “What about this guy?” Victor sat down on Sherlock’s bed, holding up the frame. “I recognize you, who wouldn’t with that mop of hair, and Mycroft… who’s the older bloke?”

“My cousin, Ford,” Sherlock said brusquely, hurrying over to take the picture away from Victor. He placed it face down on his desk without even looking at it as Victor sprawled lazily out on his narrow twin bed. “No one important. Mother just likes the picture, is all.”

Victor was still learning when to push Sherlock and when to leave him be. He did know that this was a time to leave him be. He had been so agitated on the train ride home, Victor decided to risk it and light up one of the joints he had on him. They would have a private car until they had to switch trains and catch a connecting train to King’s Cross, so once Victor drew the shades, all was well and Sherlock finally unwound.

He had never met someone as wired as Sherlock before… the way his mind worked, his constant energy, his endless curiosity, he never _stopped_ … it was amazing.

Beautiful, really.

“Is that yours?” Victor pointed to a violin on Sherlock’s bookshelf, changing the subject.

 Sherlock, blushing a little bit more now, shyly nodded.

“Do you still play?”

When Sherlock sheepishly nodded again, Victor grinned “You’re always surprising me, Sherlock. Just when I think I’ve got you figured out…”

“I hope I don’t ever become that predictable,” Sherlock murmured, sitting on the bed next to Victor.  “I wasn’t sure if I should bring that to school or not… wasn’t sure if I would have time to practice. Now I’m kind of glad I left the old thing at home.”

“Will you play for me sometime?” Victor ran his fingers lightly up and down Sherlock’s back.

“Maybe later,” Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of Victor’s fingernails roaming up and down his back.

“Hey, uh,” Victor cleared his throat. “I know you think your family’s all bastards, so I wanted to say, in case I forget, thanks for inviting me to your Easter.”

“It’s fine. It’s nice having someone other than Mycroft to talk to,” Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He did love having his back lightly scratched.

“No, I mean it. I couldn’t go home. Your family’s just weird. Mine’s utter shit.”

“Can’t choose our family, unfortunately,” Sherlock turned his head and opened his eyes. Smiled at Victor. “But we best not light up the rest of your party favors this weekend with Mycroft here. If he wasn’t spending the weekend I’d say the hell with it. Neither one of my parents would notice, honestly. But Mike smelt it in my hair and clothes. So I had to endure a sermon from him about the Evils of Drugs and it’s just best not to tempt fate this weekend.”

“Oh, alright,” Victor groused a little. “Who does he think he is anyway? Mycroft?”

Sherlock rested his hand on Victor’s knee and leaned over. “The British Government,” he breathed before kissing Victor lightly, tenderly on the lips.

 


	6. Por una Cabeza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "At that very moment, he wasn’t sure who he hated more, Moriarty or Sherlock..." 
> 
> Also The Baker Street Irregulars have an interesting chat with Alice Rucastle Fowler...
> 
> Notes at the end of the chapter. As always, thanks for reading and commenting! :^)

Chapter Six: _Por una Cabeza_

20 July 2015  
City of Westminster, London, England  
Monday evening   
6:25 PM

“… Mary. Mary?”

“What?”

 “I’ve been talking to you the entire ride,” John said as the black cab turned onto Baker Street. “Have you heard to a word I’ve said?”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry love, I’ve been distracted.”

“I cottoned on to that, funnily enough. Good thing we took a cab instead of driving.”

“Yes, it’s a wonderful thing that our only car is in the shop right now because there’s a knocking noise underneath the bonnet,” Mary snapped, turned her attention back to the cab window.

Stunned, John blinked, as if she had slapped him. “OK. Here’s an idea. How about instead of ignoring me or biting my head off you just tell me what’s wrong?” When Mary didn’t answer, John looked at the pile of hospital records on his lap. “Did I do something to upset you, Mary?”

Hearing the hurt in his voice, Mary turned to him again. “No. You’re perfect.”

“Then what’s the matter?” He leaned towards her “Your problems are my privilege, remember?”

She shook her head, tried to smile. “The past few days have just been really rough.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I love Molly and I’m happy for her, but it’s not fair. She has her baby and we don’t…”

_Because someone stole her_ …Mary finished her sentence in her head.

“I can’t stop thinking about her, John. I keep thinking oh, she’d be seven months old now…”

_She_ is _seven months old…_

She shook her head “Being stupid.”

“No,” John ran his hand down her face “Never. Are we… are we rushing things? Should we wait? I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready to try again.”

“We’re not rushing, when we talked about this in March, I told you I was ready and I am. That’s the other reason why I’m a bit sad. We’ve been trying and…” she held her hands up hopelessly “Nothing’s happened, which is exactly what I was afraid of. I’m not exactly a spring chicken, you know. Most women my age are closing up shop when it comes to making babies.”

The cab came to a stop in front of 221B Baker Street.

“Well, don’t hang the ‘Closed for Business’ sign up yet,” John shifted the tower of files to Mary’s lap so he could take his wallet out. “After all, who knows what could happen? We weren’t exactly chastely holding hands during Greg and Molly’s reception either.”

John grinned mischievously. Mary tried to smile back, but what she had overheard from the two gossiping nurses had spoilt the naughty rendezvous she and John had that night. She only managed a feeble smile for her husband.

Seeing his joke had backfired, John quickly rearranged his face into a sober expression. “Just don’t keep things from me either, Mary. OK? Especially when you’re this upset, you’ve really not been yourself since the wedding.”

“Have I really been that bad?” Mary hugged the files as John paid the cabbie.

“Well, your cooking’s been off and you didn’t fold my shirts correctly when you did laundry the other day,” John said lightly. Mary swatted him with a file. “There’s my girl,” John grinned and opened the cab door. “Come on. Sherlock’s probably had a litter of kittens now, waiting on us.”

“Oooh I would hate to think what Sherlock would do to a litter of kittens,” Mary slid over on the seat as John climbed out.

He took the files from Mary as she got out of the cab. “He does alright with Gladstone.”

“Probably because that dog would rip his face off if he tried messing about with him.”

“That is a very fair statement, actually,” John stood aside as Mary got out. “Keys are in my pocket,” he turned to the side just slightly. Mary reached into his trousers pocket and fished out the keys to 221B. She let herself and John into the block of flats.

John felt that same rush of comfort and security he almost always felt whenever he entered 221B. The only times he hadn’t, were  the few times he had visited when he still thought Sherlock was dead. The sweet little terrace house he had with Mary was located in a great neighborhood. The Victorian façade masked the very modern layout and furnishings of their home… there was no hideous wallpaper and all the furniture matched. There weren’t any eyeballs floating in coffee cups… or human heads in the refrigerator…

… but even after all this time, 221B still felt like home.

Guiltily, John knew 221A was currently empty… would it be so bad to sell the terrace house and move back here? Or even rent the house out for a profit?

_Yes_ , Mary would immediately say. _Yes it would be bad, are you joking? The flat’s half the size of our house and there’s no room for kids. There’s only street parking, no garden. You really want to move back here? To be closer to that madman?_

_Yes,_ John argued with the Mary-in-his-mind as he set the files down on the coffee table. _Yes I want to be closer to my best friend, who I thought was_ dead and buried _but by some miracle, has come back to me. What is wrong with that?_  

_Because_ I’m _supposed to be your best friend_ , the Mary-in-his-mind argued back.

“Did you two have a domestic?”

John jumped, whirled around. Saw Sherlock, standing less than an inch away. “Jesus. Don’t do that,” he took a step back, carding his fingers through his hair, making them stick up like quills.

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me.”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I said your name three times. It was as if I wasn’t here.” Sherlock reached and flattened John’s hair.

John batted Sherlock’s hand away. “Well, now you know how it feels when you disappear into your mind palace; you don’t answer me when I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said airily “I don’t answer you at those times because your questions are usually stupid and you should be able to reason them out yourself.”

“Why are we friends again?” John asked as Sherlock darted around him and swiped the first file off the stack John had put on the coffee table.

“Because I am brilliant, adventurous and slightly mad,” Sherlock thumbed through the file “The same as you… well… two out of three.”

“I’m not afraid to beat you up, you know,” John sank down onto the sofa. “Where’s Mary? And where’s Violet?”

“Mary’s in the loo. Violet took Gladstone out the back alley for him to do his business. Paparazzi’s been skulking around again, must be a slow news day. Is this all of them? The medical records for Lady Elise?”

“Is that all…” John goggled at the tower of files, then at Sherlock. “Yes that’s bloody well all of them! I’ve never seen so many files for one person.”

Sherlock thrust the file he had skimmed to John “Something’s missing.”

“How are you able to tell, oh never mind, I’m too tired to care,” John rubbed his eyes. Mary had been restless all last night. When Mary couldn’t sleep, neither could John.

“I need you to read these files,” Sherlock leaned over and tapped the tower. “All of them.”

“What? _Now?_ ”

“Well, not now,” Sherlock straightened up and checked his watch. “We’re due for our Skype meeting with Alice soon. Tonight. Read them tonight.”

“Wish you would have said something before I brought the lot here. And I’d like to sleep tonight.”

“Won’t happen.”

“Why?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “Mary’s lying to you about something,” he said very quietly.

“I knew it,” John leaned back against the couch. “She hasn’t been right since Greg and Molly’s wedding. Hasn’t been acting like herself.”

Sherlock placed his hand on his chest right where she had shot him. “Do I need to be concerned?”

“Not funny.”

“Not joking.”

“Not sure,” John admitted, “If you should be worried or not. I’ll find out.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “I will. You read the medical files. Tonight. Since you won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

Mary came into the lounge, looking very downcast indeed. “Uh, Sherlock,” her cheeks were slightly pink. Her eyes were slightly red and watery. “When will Violet be back? I need… I need to ask her something.”

“Ask her what?” Sherlock asked innocently then looked Mary up and down. “Ah… um. Oh. Yes. She keeps her…” now Sherlock flushed then mumbled, “Cupboard under the sink. Master bath.”

Mary nodded, her eyes looking quite bright and wet now. She swallowed hard, whispered, “Thanks,” and retreated.

“Care to clue me in?” John asked after Mary departed. Although, as a doctor, he had a feeling he knew exactly why Mary had wanted to speak to Violet and why Sherlock looked so damned uncomfortable right now.

He just needed to hear it. Out loud. The confirmation.

“Her… monthly inconvenience came,” Sherlock’s cheeks reddened more.

“Oh,” John looked at the ugly red rug under his feet. “Yeah, we were talking about that before we came, about trying again for another baby. But that’s not what she’s lying to me about, is it?”

_Please say yes_ John silently pleaded with his friend.

“No.”

“Can you deduce what it is then?”

“I will. I promise.”

The front door opened. Gladstone bounded in first, making a beeline for Sherlock, nuzzling his hand, demanding to be petted.

Violet shut the door behind her. She hung Gladstone’s leash on the peg next to Sherlock’s infamous Belstaff and blue scarf. “Is Mary here?” she asked as ‘Miss Smith’.

“In the loo,” John informed her.

“Mm,” Violet nodded her thanks for the head’s up. She checked her watch, her only sentimental possession. Her brother had given it to her for her thirtieth birthday. “Shall I set up the computer? So you two are ready for your Skype chat?”

“If it’s not too inconvenient,” Sherlock said as he drifted towards his music stand and violin.

“You OK?” Violet whispered to John, taking her fake eyeglasses out of her capris’ pockets and slipping them on.

“Yeah,” he lied. Then confessed: “We just had a bit of setback, Mary and I. No baby,” he looked at the floor again, clasping his hands between his knees.

He felt Violet squeeze his shoulder and looked up in time to see her picking up Sherlock’s laptop off his desk. She set it down again on the Client’s Chair and crouched down to flip it open. As she began to type, Sherlock played a few notes on his violin then scribbled something on sheet paper. Then he played a few more notes and scribbled again.

The music sounded dark, dangerous and seductive. But it was nothing like the requiem he had composed for The Woman.  While it lacked the sorrow and longing of Irene’s song, there was something… elegant underlying the darkness and below even that, something slightly playful, provocative even. 

John got up from the sofa and caught Violet’s eye. She shrugged. “Something new,” she said as John sat in “his” chair.

“Victor?” he mouthed at her.

She cocked her head, listening to Sherlock play a few full bars of whatever he was composing. Then she shook her head “Doesn’t fit the profile.”

“For Sherlock?”

“For Victor,” she said maximizing the Skype screen. “The music doesn’t match his personality.” 

Mary quietly came back into the lounge and sat on the arm of John’s chair, next to her husband. John reached for her hand and clasped it between both of his. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

“Don’t be. Everything is fine,” Mary smiled into John’s earnest eyes.

Sherlock studied the pair over his violin, his black brows beetled together. _Liar… liar… liar…_

His quicksilver eyes flicked over to Violet. She had finished setting up the computer but was still kneeling to pet Gladstone. She too, observed Mary. Sherlock could see Violet had come to the same conclusion as he: _Liar… liar… liar…_

“Mary, would you mind keeping me company in the kitchen while I make tea?” Violet stood up and shooed Gladstone away. The dog trotted off and made himself comfortable on the sofa.

John realized he better check his shirt and jeans for dog hair.

“Sure, no problem,” Mary said, rising. She disappeared into the kitchen first. Violet followed, shooting Sherlock a quick look saying _I’ve got this_ and slid the kitchen door shut.

Sherlock started playing the violin louder, switching to an actual song instead of one of his compositions. But it wasn’t a classical piece. It was fairly recent, if one considered 1935 “recent”.

John knew Sherlock had only increased the volume of his music so Mary would have the illusion she was speaking to Violet in private. But he still leaned back in his chair, letting the music of _Por una Cabeza_ wash over him.

As the tango reverberated throughout the flat, Violet opened the cupboard and started taking Sherlock’s tea service out, cup by cup. “If you could switch the kettle on, that would be great.”

Mary added water and turned the electric kettle on, playing along. Just two friends enjoying a bit of domesticity, preparing tea for their men. How quaint. How picturesque.

“Do you have any Earl Grey?” Mary asked.

Her back to Mary, Violet pulled a face. She didn’t care her aversion to tea would be considered stereotypically American. She just really hated the bitter, weak crap. _Give me a steaming cup of strong coffee any day_. “I think so,” she said lightly. “I also have chamomile. Or peppermint. If your stomach is still off from all the boozing at Molly and Greg’s wedding.”

“Chamomile’s nice,” Mary said agreeably as Sherlock’s violin wailed outside the kitchen door.

“Mary,” Violet said as she took out a metal canister and checking instead to make sure there really was sugar in it and not an unpleasant surprise like mice skeletons or birds’ nests. (She had found stranger things in that kitchen.) “I think you and I can agree that women in our predicament do not necessarily have the luxury of friends, now, do we?” 

Violet turned around, looked at  Mary over  her fake eyeglasses. The bright, cheerful mask had slipped off her face. Now Mary looked strained as a coldness entered her eyes. She folded her lips very tightly together. She stood poised, as if ready to attack her if necessary.

_Who is this woman?_ Violet wished she still had access to the VICAP database at the FBI.

_CIA or FBI?_ Mary found herself wondering again. _How did she get tangled up with Sherlock?_  

“But,” Violet felt like she had just inadvertently entered a closed room with a hungry lion and the door had just swung shut and locked behind her. _Time to be the lion tamer…_ “We do need allies. Especially since you and I know very damn well Sherlock’s big brother’s no minor bureaucrat.” Watching what little color Mary had in her face drain away, Violet whispered “That man could have us both killed-” she snapped her fingers in front of Mary’s face. “-like that.”

Violet noted how Mary didn’t jump, barely reacted other than an involuntary fluttering of her eyelids. She stood almost perfectly still.

_Military…._ Violet thought, but then her mouth went dry as Mycroft’s acidic words flew back to her when he had heartlessly sent the two of them to save Sherlock from Jack Woodley last April:

_Two… no,_ three _of the best assassins are his best friends…_

_Oh John, what have you gotten yourself into?_ Violet privately quailed while saying quietly and calmly “You know it. I know it. We need to be on the same side now.” She tilted her head towards the door. “For the boys.”

The killer’s mask dissolved. Mary came back, her face softening, her lips turned down in grief as she closed her eyes, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

Seeing Mary’s pressure point, Violet pressed, pressed _hard._ “And especially for John.”

A sob slipped out, Mary covered her eyes. Violet spied a paper napkin from Speedy’s laying on the countertop, snatched it up and handed it to Mary. Mary dabbed her eyes and blew her nose, shaking her head. “What has happened to me?” she wrapped her arms around her stomach, crumpling the soggy napkin in her hand. “If you would have told me ten years ago what my life would be like right now, I would have laughed myself sick.” She looked at Violet from head to toe. “I have the feeling ten years ago you and I would have been on opposing teams.”

Violet waited as the kettle boiled.

Mary tucked the used napkin in her jeans pocket and went to the sink to wash her hands. Violet stood aside and let Mary complete the tea-making, letting her talk.

“I might need your help,” Mary admitted as Violet calmly spooned sugar from the canister to the crystal sugar bowl. “But I don’t know yet. I overheard something I wasn’t meant to...”

“Does it affect Sherlock?”

“I don’t know… possibly.”

“Does it affect John?”

“Yes. Oh God yes,” Mary’s eyes watered and her lip trembled, but she pulled herself together. “But I can’t tell him. Not yet. I need… to do my research first. It could be nothing and I could be getting all worked up over nothing.”

“Well… OK,” Violet let it drop. For now. “You know where to find me.”

“You can’t tell the boys.”

“Seriously?” Violet hefted the tea tray up, loaded with the teapot, cups, the sugar bowl and tiny silver creamer. “You do know who I live with, yes?”

“Then lie to him.” The ice was back in Mary’s voice, the voice of a stone-cold killer. “If you tell Sherlock, he’ll tell John and I can’t, _I won’t_ get his hopes up.”

“OK, OK,” Violet said, also noting how Mary said _get his hopes up_. Hopes up about what? “I’ll do my best but I can’t make promises. Hopefully this case will serve as an adequate distraction. Now, speaking of the case, could you get the door? It’s almost time for the Skype chat.”

Mary nodded and slid the door open, standing aside so Violet could get by.

Sherlock stopped playing when Violet came out carrying the tea tray. “Thank Mary for this, I asked for company and she ended up doing most of the work.”

“I think I’ll thank God instead,” Sherlock put down his violin and bow, coughing as he did so. He insisted that Violet screwed up every single cup of tea she had ever tried to prepare.

Violet scowled at her “boyfriend” but carried a cup of tea to him anyway.

He arched an eyebrow at her, his fingertips grazing hers. _Well?_ He silently asked her about her conversation with Mary.

Violet, her back again to Mary (and John as well) mouthed _Later_ at Sherlock. “And no more cigarettes,” she said sternly. 

He grunted and flounced off to his chair. Apparently his smoking grace period was over. 

Violet whistled for Gladstone, who hopped off “his” sofa and joined Violet at her side.

Both Violet and Mary positioned themselves so they could see the laptop screen but not be caught on camera. It wouldn’t do, to be photographed.

It had been a minor miracle Violet hadn’t been photographed at Molly and Greg’s wedding. Violet had kept her head ducked down while she played the piano, dipping her head so the brim of her hat would hide her face. Sherlock had stood in front of her a few times too, blocking the photographer’s shot.

It wasn’t always fun, not existing.

Sherlock took a sip of tea then set it aside, steepling his fingers, eyes closed. Thinking, as usual. John took out his pen and little notebook, leaning forward, waiting. Staring at the computer, literally sitting on the edge of his seat.

Soon, a woman’s face appeared on the screen. She could have been Sherlock’s twin sister. Thin, almost bony. Pale, luminescent skin, hair black as ebony.

But her hair was also stick-straight and severely cut into chin-length bob. And her eyes were most definitely an unchanging brown. She wore huge silver hoops in her ears , thick black spectacles and dark red lipstick. Her eye makeup was just as severe, all black eyeliner and silver and sooty eye shadow.

She looked like a modern-day wicked queen. She looked like she had been born and raised in New York’s posh Upper East Side. But when she opened her mouth, a pure London accent came out. “Hello, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I am Alice Fowler. I trust my brother-in-law told you why I require your services?”

Sherlock kept his eyes shut.

“Uh,” John looked at Sherlock, then at the computer. _How in the hell is he supposed to do any deducing if his bloody eyes are shut?_ “He did, yes. But we had some follow-up questions.”

“Why now, after all this time, am I pursuing this?”

“Yes,” John said, sneaking a quick look at Sherlock.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Very well. I’ll keep it brief and yet make it as interesting as possible since it appears I have put Mr. Holmes to sleep.”

“Not yet. And you are pursuing this because of your concern for your half-brother’s safety,” Sherlock still kept his eyes closed. “That much is obvious. What I want to ask you, Mrs. Fowler, is are you prepared for the very real consequences of what will happen when John and I solve your mother’s murder?”

Alice’s mouth fell open a little. Her lip wobbled a bit. Then she clamped her mouth shut. Leaned forward, towards the web-cam again and said “Say that again Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Your mother’s murder.”

Alice had her hand at her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered, her go-to-hell attitude gone. She took off her glasses. Her eyes shone with tears. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear someone else say that. And, I apologize,” she stuck her fingers into her shirt sleeve and produced tissues. “I was warned not to get sentimental.”

“Mourning for your murdered mother is not sentiment,” Sherlock told her.

John, Mary and Violet goggled at the detective. Even Gladstone looked confused.

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” John asked.

Dabbing her eyes, Alice said “And to answer your question, Mr. Holmes, the answer is yes. I am perfectly aware what will happen if I prove once and for all my father caused my mother’s death. I will be in the center of a publicity nightmare. My private life will become tabloid fodder. My business might suffer. I will have gained a very dangerous enemy in my mother’s cousin, the Earl of Winchester, a powerful politician in the House of Lords. I will be asking you and your partner and your loved ones to risk their lives. And I will most likely have to assume custody of my six year old half-brother, which will be a logistical and legal nightmare as I renounced my British citizenship and became an American years and years ago…”

Violet frowned, recalling a long-ago conversation about Lord Cullen-Culpepper with her former superior at the FBI...

_Never married, never had kids. No siblings. Parents are deceased. Only living relative is the daughter of a cousin who moved to New York. She became a US citizen years ago…_

_I’ll be damned… small world._

“… and this enterprise will be ruinously expensive for me,” Alice finished saying.

“Why would you have to assume custody of the boy?” John asked. “His mother, the current Mrs. Rucastle is still alive.”

“Oh,” Alice said scornfully. “ _Her_. Tristan Holloway. I doubt very much she’s a fit mother. She actually spent some time in New York, tried to get my agency to represent her, but her reputation preceded her. She’s a party girl, or was. Failed out of several universities, you see, and she decided to give modeling and acting a try, under the stage name Trixie Holiday. I tried to advise her against using that name, tried to tell her it sounds like the name of an adult film star, but she ignored me. She thought all there was to modeling and acting was just to stand there and look pretty. Good thing she was pretty because she was also lazy, bad-mannered and demanding. Acted like a spoilt brat when she did manage to book jobs. I didn’t even bother keeping her book, although I recognized her immediately after I saw a brief story about her wedding to my father in one of the rags. I’m sure she’s quite content being my father’s latest prisoner.”

“Prisoner?” John asked, his pen scratching away in his notebook.

“My father is narcissistic control-freak. He told everyone this story about how my mother was agoraphobic. Well, that was not true. He kept her locked up either in our London house or  in our summer home near Cornwall. Used the agoraphobia as an excuse, a pretense to keep her locked up inside. After she died, he pulled me out of school. Told me the outside world isn’t safe for a girl like me. He needed to keep me pure. I became his next prisoner. For six years. I was just as trapped as my mother. Except it was worse, I wasn’t even allowed to go to The Copper Beaches anymore. I literally stayed locked up in our London home for six lonely, claustrophobic years. Thank God there had been a library.”

She leaned forward towards the web cam again. “Let me paint you a picture of what kind of a man my father is. My mother died when I was twelve years old. When I was fourteen, I had made a friend, of a sort. A neighbor boy saw me, sitting at my bedroom window. I opened the window and started chatting with him. Maybe he had a crush on me, I don’t know, but it was nice. Having a friend. He’d bring me things, sweets and fizzy drinks, mostly. In return, I gave him books and magazines. I had this basket, an old Easter basket and I had tied a string on it so I could lower it up and down. It was completely innocent, I was completely innocent. I was fourteen years old and still playing with _dolls_ , for God’s sake.” She looked angry instead of embarrassed though. “Which was exactly what my father wanted, of course, he wanted me to stay as a little girl. A little girl playing with dolls, not a teenager talking to boys.”

“You were discovered, obviously,” Sherlock intoned.

“Of course, we were. It was a miracle it lasted through the summer. When my father found out though, I went from being locked in the house to being locked up in one of the guest rooms. Then he found a model that looked very similar to me, made her cut and dye her hair so it was red like mine-”

“Red?” John interrupted.

“Oh yes,” Alice smoothed her glossy inky hair. “I had beautiful chestnut hair when I was girl.”

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly, flicking his eyes briefly at Violet, who stood off to the sides. Then he turned his attention back at the computer screen again. A mustard seed of an idea fell into the fertile grounds of his busy brain, taking root…

“My father forced me to cut it into a sort of a boy’s cut, a pixie. Easier to take care of, he said. But he really just never liked long hair. First thing he did to me after Mama died was chop my long hair off. Took a giant pair of shears and just sawed through my pigtails.” She shook her head at the memory. “Anyway, I’m getting off track. This model, one of his ‘muses’ (as he calls them) after she was made to look like me, was made to go into my old bedroom and sit at my window every day at approximately the same time my friend would come by. She was to utterly ignore him. Eventually, my friend, thinking the girl at the window was me, did give up. When he stopped coming around, my father finally let me out of the guest room. He told me it was for my protection, to keep me locked up. But I knew if I didn’t get out that house, away from him, I was either going to go mad or I was going to be murdered like my mother.”

“How did you get away?” John asked.

Alice smiled. “As I said, thank God there was a library. I read, voraciously. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ became my personal Bible. I started planning. I started stealing, here and there. A few pence here,  a fiver there. Small change, small bills, nothing anyone would miss. I knew I had to at least stay alive and stay sane until age eighteen.” She grunted in self-satisfaction. “I hid the money in the belly of one of my dolls.”

“Clever,” Sherlock said, the highest compliment he could pay someone.

“One day, at breakfast, I told my father I had been thinking about my future and that I wanted to go into the family business with him. I would very much like to travel with him and be his constant companion. I told him I wanted to learn everything about fashion and design. I appealed to his massive ego, fed him this rubbish how he was the best and brightest in the world. Then I asked him if I could come with him to Fashion Week in Paris.”

“Of course, he said yes,” John continued to take notes.

“Of course,” Alice confirmed. “I finally appeared to him what he wanted me to be, his utterly devoted slave. So, for the first time in six years, I got to leave that awful house for supervised excursions. I visited his studio where he does all his design work and stole one of his credit cards when he wasn’t looking. He took me on a shopping spree and I bought one pair of sensible trainers because I knew I may have to make a run for it. Best of all, I got my picture taken for my passport, which is what I wanted more than a trip to France, the passport.

“The whole while, I played the devoted daughter. I acted like I idolized him. I acted like his designs were  the best in the world. Although as much as it pains me to admit it, without him, I would not have the career I have today, being a talent agent. I learned at my father’s knee how the fashion and acting industries really work, the ugly underbelly. As much as I hate him, he did show me how to make a living.”

“Then you went to Paris,” John said.

“Then I went to Paris. I was supposed to stay in my room while everyone else went  to the parties after the big fashion show. I immediately called the airport and bought a plane ticket with my father’s credit card. I changed out of the stupid baby-doll dress my father had selected for me, put on my new trainers, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed my suitcase and I was out the door. Was in a cab heading towards Charles de Galle before anyone noticed I was gone. Twelve hours later, I was in New York City and I never looked back.”

“Just like that?” John looked up from his notes.

Alice shrugged. “It was 1994, things were different. Back then nobody questioned why an eighteen year old girl was flying to New York alone. And that was the most important thing, I was eighteen years old. Legally, my father couldn’t command me back to England, unless he wanted to press charges for credit card fraud, which I knew he wouldn’t do. If he did, he would have to explain why I left in the first place. I stayed at first at a hotel near the airport, killing time until I knew he was back in England,” her eyes clouded over. “Then I called him.”

“Why?” John asked. “You were free.” 

“Free, but my finances were still quite precarious. I knew the money I had stolen over the years was not going to last long at all in New York City and he would cancel the credit card once he realized I used it to buy the plane ticket.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, he called me every filthy name in the book and how I was the most ungrateful daughter in the entire world. I bore it as well I as could, after all, I was still only an eighteen year old girl, a very sheltered eighteen year old girl. I was terrified. But I found my courage and told the bastard quite plainly to let the Earl of Winchester know I was  giving up any claim I may have on the inheritance that would have gone to my mother. I also told my father I would keep quiet about how he kept me and Mama locked up in that house all those years as long as he agreed to support me financially for five years in America. If he refused, I’d go public, create a scandal.”

She shrugged. “Well, he only supported me financially for a year, but that was all I needed, really. I found a job waiting tables, made friends with the other waitresses. They needed a flat-mate so I was able to move from the hotel room I had been staying at before my father’s money ran out. They also helped me start the process to obtain the American citizenship. I also made some other friends who helped me getting little jobs modeling and acting. Turns out,” she smiled “I actually had more of a gift for finding work for other models and actors. I met my husband and,” she spread her arms out wide, “Here I am today. About to lose it all because I have a half-brother I feel responsible for although I have never met him.” 

“Oh, _pbffft_. Don’t get boring now,” Sherlock implored. “Your survivor’s guilt, that you escaped whilst your mother perished, is not helpful to me at all.”

“And he’s back,” John muttered under his breath.

“So in actuality, we have two cases not just one,” Sherlock continued on as if John hadn’t spoken, although he did give John a very dirty look. “The murder of your mother and whether or not your father and your father’s second wife are fit parents for your half-brother. Obviously when we prove your father murdered your mother (either via assassin or by his own hand), he will go to prison and will only be in your half-brother’s life in a quite limited capacity. So we will need to determine if Tristan Holloway is capable of parenting the boy on her own as well.”

“I take it I will be charged double then?” Alice put her eyeglasses back on. “There is something else you both should know. My mother had aspirations to be a journalist. She wrote but her passion was photography. How those ambitions got derailed when she met my father I have no idea. She took fashion pictures for him for a while, of my father’s muses and his designs. He built her a dark room in our London home and at The Copper Beaches. Of course this was all prior to digital cameras and computers so they were proper dark rooms, completely light-proof. When my father stopped letting my mother going out into public, my mother kept meticulous journals and took photographs around the house, just to try to  keep sane, I think. My father, of course, found the journals and pictures she had hidden in our London house.  But I don’t know if he ever found the journals and negatives she hid at The Copper Beaches.”

“Sorry, the Copper Beaches?” John stopped taking notes.

“That’s my father’s house in Cornwall. Just off the Helford River. I wasn’t allowed to go there anymore after Mama died. Boys might see me in my swimsuit, you know,” she added darkly. “The house is more of a status symbol and a source of additional income for my father. He rarely used it after Mama died. He rents it out to his celebrity friends for a song, but once a year, every August, he has an enormous party, a farewell to summer sort of ordeal. It starts as a formal affair but ends up a Bacchanalian debacle. While Mama was still alive, when Father was still in love with her instead of being obsessed with controlling her, he built her a dark room there as well. And like I said earlier, this was a proper light-proof dark room because this happened all before the age of digital cameras and Photoshop, of course. He never went in there, the smell of the film developing chemicals turned him away. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mama managed to hide something in there.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock droned. “That would have been the first place your father would have looked. However, I would not be surprised if your mother had hidden something at the Copper Beaches, just not in a place so obvious.”

John felt a distinct twinge of discomfort. The last time they broke in somewhere, looking for incriminating documents, Sherlock had gotten shot…

… by the blonde woman, standing behind Sherlock.

John resolutely kept his eyes on the computer screen, told himself sternly not to turn around and look at Mary. Not to check if she felt as uncomfortable as he did, or if she looked like she felt guilty or remorseful… or if she didn’t look guilty or remorseful.

As if he could read John’s thoughts (or more realistically, detected some small, involuntary motion from John that communicated his discomfort) Sherlock asked “Are you asking us to break into the Copper Beaches, Mrs. Fowler? We are detectives, not burglars.”

“Wouldn’t dream of asking you to break into my father’s summer home,” Alice said smoothly. “Not only were you recommended for your superior skills as an investigator but my father also _worships_ celebrity. Find a way to befriend my father and he’ll _invite_ you to the Copper Beaches. It’s a two week affair, with a sneak-peek fashion show of his latest designs towards the end.”

“I’m hardly a celebrity, Mrs. Fowler,” Sherlock demurred.

“Nonsense,” Alice said firmly. “I knew who the ‘Hat Detective’ was before Victor even recommended you to me. Americans are actually quite fascinated with you. The blog, you see,” she tilted her head towards John.

John felt a pleasant flush on his face despite his misgivings. “Americans read my blog?”

“Well, New Yorkers at least, can’t speak for the entire country. But yes, Mr. Holmes you have made quite a name for yourself. That is why I know my father would be flattered if you sought his friendship out. And also that is why I know you can finally bring my father to justice.”

“If Sherlock’s so famous, why isn’t your father seeking him out?” John asked.

“Because my father is a narcissistic arsehole, Dr. Watson,” Alice reminded him. “He thinks you should seek him out.”

“Which we shall,” Sherlock assured the woman on the computer screen. “We’ll be in touch. John will email you our schedule of fees and regular status reports. Good day, Mrs. Fowler,” and Sherlock abruptly bounced up from his seat and made his way over to his desk and ancient desktop computer, powering it up.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson,” Alice said to the bewildered John, finding himself alone with the client. “Don’t worry, Victor, my brother-in-law, warned me about Mr. Holmes’ eccentricities.”

“Yes, well,” John flustered, looking at Mary and Violet for help. The women just shrugged.

John could read their thoughts as if they had spoken aloud. Mary’s expression clearly said _Darling he’s your friend_ and Violet’s said _You’re on your own pal_. 

“Just,” Alice hesitated. “Advise Mr. Holmes to take no unnecessary risks. My father…” she hesitated again, slender black eyebrows furrowed. Choosing her words carefully, she said “Physically, he’s not intimidating. He grew quite fat in his old age, he resembles the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man from _Ghostbusters_ … but… he is cunning. And he has powerful friends.”

“Duly noted, Mrs. Fowler,” John assured her, shutting his notebook. “Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you for agreeing to do the impossible,” Alice said. “Bring me everything and anything that can help me put his fat rump behind bars.” Her arm obscured the screen as she reached to switch the webcam on her computer off. Then the screen went black.

“Right,” John stood up and stretched his back. “So, Sherlock, what are we going to do first?”

“Leave,” Sherlock said, already surfing the Internet.

“Sorry?”

“Go home, John, you have loads of files to read,” he tilted his head towards the files stacked on the coffee table in front of the battered sofa.

“Sherlock, I could have dropped those files off at home before coming here,” John fumed.

“How is that my problem you failed to plan ahead?”

John opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head and trundled back over to the coffee table to collect the files. “I really hate you sometimes,” he told his best friend.

“Pick out an expensive restaurant for a late lunch and we’ll discuss your findings,” Sherlock said as his slender fingers flew over the keyboard. “I’ll pay.”

“What time?” John asked as Mary loaded files up into his arms.

Sherlock thought a moment. His meeting with Mycroft tomorrow should only eat up approximately an hour of his time so… “One-thirty. Text me where you’d like to meet.”

“Oh, let’s just do Angelo’s then,” John said. “I’ve got errands to run; I’ll be in that part of the city anyway. Mary, you’re welcome to join us.”

“She is?” Sherlock looked up from his computer.

“Don’t be rude, _darling_ ,” Violet somehow always made it sound like she was calling him “jackass” whenever she called him “darling”.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to be the third wheel on your date,” Mary sounded a bit more like herself. “Plus I have tomorrow off from St. Bart’s. There are things I need to do around the house.”

“OK, then see you tomorrow,” John called to Sherlock but he was already lost in research. “Right,” John sighed. “Good night Violet.”

Violet nodded and waved at the Watsons as they let themselves out. Knowing it would be pointless to talk to Sherlock now, she gathered the tea things and did the washing up.

In fact, it was several hours later when Sherlock looked up from his computer, noticing Violet sitting in his chair watching late night television. As if noticing her for the first time ever, he asked, “What are you still doing here?”

Violet swiveled her head around slowly. Scowling, she reminded him, “I live here.”

“Oh yes,” he muttered. “I have far too much work to do. Take my bedroom for the evening. I’ll kip out on the sofa if I get tired since you still ridiculously refuse to stay in John’s room.”

_Maybe it’s because you still refer to it as_ John’s room, Violet thought but she only said, “Don’t stay up too late. And _gesundheit_ ,” she added after Sherlock sneezed.

But he was back inside his mind palace, oblivious to her presence.

_Well, it’s either lie awake on the sofa or lie awake in a comfortable bed_ Violet decided. “Gladstone, _zu mir_ ,” she commanded the Alsatian.

The dog leapt off John’s chair and trotted after his mistress down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom, tail wagging.

**

21 July 2015  
Brighton, England  
Tuesday evening   
1:25 AM

“Molly… Molly…”

John and Sherlock were not the only ones experiencing a sleepless night.

As his new wife whimpered softly, clearly trapped in some sort of nightmare, Lestrade shook her shoulder gently. “Molly,” he said again, running his hand over her baby bump.

Molly’s eyes finally fluttered open, her breath catching. She lay curled up in a ball, her body instinctively protecting the baby within her. Eventually her breathing slowed down. She twisted her head around to look at her husband. “Oh, did I wake you up?” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m surprised the little tyke didn’t wake you,” Lestrade splayed his hand on her belly, feeling the baby kicking. “Think you’ve got a footballer in there.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t had to pee in the last fifteen minutes,” Molly grumbled as Lestrade spooned her, his arms wrapping around her, holding her close.

“So,” he said, kissing her neck gently. “Bad dream?”

Molly closed her eyes. It had been more than a bad dream. It had been the worst dream.

Moriarty.

Standing in the cheerful yellow nursery she and Lestrade had spent the entire weekend painting the walls and assembling baby furniture for, standing next to the white crib. Smiling, reaching down to pick the baby up… saying in his awful oily voice _I know who the daddy REALLY is…_

“They say anxiety dreams are common as you get closer to the due date,” Molly murmured, reaching up to clasp his hands as he held her, her eyes fluttering shut again.

“Do pregnancy anxiety dreams make you say ‘Jim don’t’ over and over in your sleep?” Lestrade whispered, resting his stubbled cheek lightly on her smooth one. 

Molly froze in Lestrade’s arms, her eyes wide open now.

“Molly, I know this is our honeymoon and all… but someday and soon, we’re going to have to talk about the Elephant in the Room.”

Molly swallowed hard. “I know.”

She let go of one of Lestrade’s hands to rest it on her belly. The little boy growing inside  her kicked and kicked again, a series of flutters like the tiniest of birds.

Willful child.

For the longest time the only sound was the honeymooners’ quiet breathing and the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the beach through the open window.

Finally though, Molly found her voice. “Do you… do you think I made a mistake? Keeping _this_ quiet?” She pressed her hand against her belly, feeling the baby kick again.

“God no,” Lestrade said immediately. “You might as well paint a bull’s eye on your back if you had broadcasted the truth. But unfortunately it’s only a short term solution, keeping quiet. I worry about the future. If he looks like his real dad, if he’s as brilliant as his real dad.”

“ _You’re_ his real dad,” Molly said fiercely. Then in a subdued voice, added, “Are you upset that you’re not… his… biological dad?”

Lestrade sat up, then reached down to help his pregnant wife up as she slowly started push herself upright. He then studied his bride in the moonlight, all soft and round. Nothing but curves underneath the old t-shirt of his that she wore as a nightgown. He ran his fingers through her lovely auburn hair, thick and soft and long thanks to the prenatal vitamins.

_Guess we’re talking about the Elephant now_ he realized. “I’m upset my divorce took so ruddy long to finalize. I’m upset I was too much of a coward to go after you when we had that row and broke up because of it. I’m…” he trailed off, wanting very much not to continue. Then remembered they had just taken vows in front of God, friends and family to always be honest to each other. “I’m upset I had to find out from John Watson who the father was and not from you.”

Molly looked down, twisting the bed sheets with her hands. “I thought I was protecting you if you didn’t know,” she whispered. “I feel like I’ve made so many mistakes with the decisions I made.”

Lestrade felt a hot, stabbing pain in his heart. “Do you… think I’m one of those mistakes?”

“What? No, oh God, no, don’t think that please,” Molly reached for him now, clasping his neck. “That came out utterly wrong… never think that again, you’re not a mistake, the baby’s not a mistake… I’m the one who is just completely making a pig’s ear out of everything. I thought _not_ telling you was the right thing to do but that wasn’t right at all… I thought telling Sherlock _was_ the right thing but now I’m not sure about that either. I think I should have reversed the order, that I should have told you but not Sherlock, but I don’t know,” she shook her head. “I was so alone when I found out I was expecting. I was so bloody scared and…” she shook her head, letting go of Lestrade now, burying her face in her hands. “I’m supposed to protect him,” she sobbed. “The baby, but everything I’m doing, everything I’m saying has been _wrong_.”  

Lestrade hugged her to him. Stroking her head, he said, “That’s why I’m upset I didn’t chase after you, didn’t find you sooner. I hate that you were so scared and alone, those first few weeks after you realized...” He rested his face against her hair. “I should have never let you go, Molly.”

“I’m still scared Greg,” Molly said hoarsely. “I’m so afraid, all the time. All of these ‘what ifs’ fly through my head, day and night. Don’t you think I worry about his future too? But I’m more worried about whether or not he’s going to _have_ a future. He’s still out there, Greg. Jim Moriarty. And he’s already tried to have you killed,” she trembled now, her words, her fears, long suppressed, came tumbling out now. “Everyone talks about how Moriarty had a sniper trained on John when he forced Sherlock to jump off of St. Bart’s. But there was a gun pointed at _you_ too and I worry, all the time, what if it happens again… only this time, Sherlock can’t stop him and Moriarty tells the snipers to pull the trigger? Or what if Moriarty has something worse planned for Sherlock? For all of us? I’m so afraid of losing you and the baby. I don’t want… I can’t bear the idea of losing _us_. _Our_ family, Greg.”

“I think,” Lestrade said grimly. “A very serious conversation needs to be had with Sherlock then. Moriarty’s not the only one he’s pissed off over the years. I think we three need to come to an agreement on what to do if someone does decide to go after us to get to him. Until then-”

“Greg, no. I know what you’re going to say but no.”

“Molly, I want you to learn how to use my gun,” Lestrade insisted.

“I’m not comfortable around guns.”

“Good. You should never be comfortable around guns,” Lestrade ran his hand over her hair again. “It’s just as a precaution, Molly. Sherlock’s got enemies, but so do I. I’m a cop who has thrown loads of bad guys in gaol. It’s not uncommon for a crook to seek revenge against the copper who put him in prison.”

“It’s not legal.”

“For you to own a handgun?” Lestrade pressed his forehead against Molly’s, wiping her tears away gently with his thumb “No. Of course not. But we’re not buying you a gun, are we? I just want you to be able to shoot mine in case for some reason I can’t. Because I’m telling you right now Molly, if I came home and I saw that bastard Moriarty in _my_ home, near _my_ wife and _my_ son, I’ll shoot to kill.”

“Can we talk about that later?” Molly suddenly felt exhausted. And she needed the loo. “I’m tired. And I have to pee. Again.”

“Of course,” Lestrade kissed her forehead, then her lips. He helped her off the bed and watched her walk towards the bathroom, his t-shirt barely covering her backside.

He slid out of bed as well, only to go to the window. Standing in only his boxers, he stared out, looking at the silvery beach and the inky black sea.

If only he had found his way back to Molly a bit sooner… none of this would be happening now.

At that very moment, he wasn’t sure who he hated more, Moriarty or Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious, below is a link to the tango "Por una Cabeza".   
> If it sounds familiar, it's because it's the same song played during the big dance scene in "Scent of a Woman", one of my ultimate favorite movies.
> 
> Happy Sunday!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaDXkKtHr3w


	7. The Holmes Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shall I take a drug test for you?” Sherlock’s voice sounded deceptively sweet. “Or shall I just roll up my shirt sleeves and let you check for track marks? Or you could ask my flat-mate, who started her career hunting drug cartels for the FBI in the American Southwest. Honestly, Mycroft, do you think I could hide a drug habit from her? Or John, a physician?” The sweetness disappeared from his voice. “Can we please stay on topic? I can find out for MI-6 what they want, assuming the evidence upon which they made their assumption is concrete, which I doubt. I need to know exactly what they think Agent Hunter knows and how much time I have to extract it...” 
> 
> Plus, Sherlock should not leave Violet alone in 221B Baker Street and another body is found... 
> 
> Additional notes at the bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra posting this week because it's Labor Day. :^)

Chapter Seven: The Holmes Boys

21 July 2015  
The Diogenes Club  
Tuesday   
11:59 AM

“You’re looking tired, Little Brother,” Mycroft purred as Sherlock sat down in the armchair across from him. “Are you feeling your age these days even though you refuse to act it?” 

“You’re looking puffy, Big Brother,” Sherlock riposted. “Are you retaining water?”

“Well, now that we have the usual pleasantries out of the way, shall we get to business?”

“Oh by all means,” Sherlock said, not waiting for Mycroft to serve him. He reached for the teapot and poured himself a cup.

Mycroft waited for Sherlock to be “mother,” but when he only sipped his own tea, Mycroft poured himself his own cup, his mouth a moue of irritation. “In regards to your first question,” Mycroft daintily dropped three cubes of sugar into his cup, “The successful dissolution of the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase’s_ London cell as well as the Dublin and Belfast cells has not only bought you time, but spared your life. The wealth of information we discovered at the London cell alone has made it crystal clear to MI-6 that the decision  not to have you immediately killed after you had terminated Charles Augustus Magnussen had been indeed the correct decision.”

“Tell MI-6 I thank them for the stay of execution even though Her Majesty’s Royal Secret Service had issued a license to kill for Magnussen long before I had pulled the trigger.”

_How in the blazes did he find that out?_ Mycroft fumed but only said tersely, “Her Majesty’s Royal Secret Service doesn’t exist, Sherlock.”

“Neither does the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase.”_  Sherlock’s ever-changing irises were an eerie shade of green today, like the color of the sky before a storm. His face was also paler than usual, making his eyes appear more unsettling than normal. “I suppose I am in debt to you for not allowing HMRSS to use me as their patsy.”

“You are,” Mycroft said flatly.

“I’ll name my first-born after you,” Sherlock said and immediately wished he hadn’t. He immediately took a long drink of his tea, hoping his brother wouldn’t deduce his latest secret.

Fortunately, Mycroft’s temper overrode his normally sharp observational skills. “You would have to divest yourself of your virginity first, Sherlock,” he smiled cruelly at his brother. “Unless the reason for your fatigue is because you finally decided to take advantage of the fact there is a woman living in your flat now?”

“Speaking of ‘Miss Smith,’” Sherlock put his tea cup in the saucer with a tiny clink. “Has the successful raid of the London _Rouge_ cell bought her time as well?”

“Not as much time as you,” Mycroft took a small sip.

“I see.”

“We have no reason to protect her. She’s not British, Sherlock.”

“What gave that away? The accent or the bluntness?”

“Once MI-6 gets what they want from her, they want to her deported.”

“Unacceptable. Mycroft, if she is sent back to America she will be killed.”

“Have you actually developed feelings for the lady, Sherlock?”

“She’s my friend,” Sherlock immediately snapped. “You may be able to live in a friendless vacuum, but I cannot, despite all your twaddle about _caring is not an advantage_. And I will not permit you to have Violet hurt or murdered just so you can advance your political schemes.”

“And how do you plan on stopping me?” Mycroft drawled lazily, stirring his tea.

_Oh Big Brother, you don’t know how_ delicious _it is to finally be a step ahead of_ you _for once,_ Sherlock thought maliciously. _You are positively boiling mad right now about how I found out HMRSS planned on getting rid of Magnussen before I had stepped foot on Appledore. I must remember to thank my little Swedish hacker friend for giving me the keys to the kingdom… Mycroft, you are soon to be usurped, but not yet. I must ensure Violet’s safety… and my son’s._

“Instead of playing games,” Sherlock said instead, “Tell me what MI-6 wants from Violet and I can get it from her. We have the same interests and the same enemies, Mycroft. Work with me instead of keeping me in the dark. I can help you… when you’re honest with me.”

_Let’s see if he takes the bait_ … Sherlock studied his brother over his teacup, his stormy-greenish-gold eyes locked on his brother’s pitiless dark eyes.

“Fair enough,” Mycroft broke eye contact first and Sherlock knew he had won this battle. “MI-6 believes Jim Moriarty gave critical information to Violet Hunter shortly before your Fall.”

“That’s illogical,” Sherlock finished his tea and reached for the teapot again. “Violet worked for Moriarty, not the other way around. Moriarty would never disclose vital information to a peon.”

“Your feelings for the American are clouding your judgment,” Mycroft watched his brother thirstily drink another cup of tea, “as your feelings have always clouded your judgment.”

“Oh,” Sherlock swallowed. His throat and chest hurt. However he had also ignored the advice of both John and Violet and had smoked like a forest fire last night. The Rucastle case was more than a three cigarette problem… more like a pack and a half problem. _Must buy some nicotine patches today,_ he thought as he cleared his throat. “I know you will want to discuss Victor Trevor’s return to London, but can we please conclude the business regarding Violet beforehand as I have a feeling our discussion about Victor might deteriorate into a row?”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft clenched his teeth tightly together. He felt distinctly off his game today and he didn’t like it. Especially when his little brother looked decidedly unwell, ghostly white and feverish. “But first, tell me how the methadone treatments are going?”

“A pill a day keeps the heroin away,” Sherlock said breezily. “I look dreadful because I stayed up all night for a case, Mycroft. And I smoked well over a dozen cigarettes. I’m not using, if that’s what you’re wondering, Big Brother.”

“I am wondering.”

“Shall I take a drug test for you?” Sherlock’s voice sounded deceptively sweet. “Or shall I just roll up my shirt sleeves and let you check for track marks? Or you could ask my flat-mate, who started her career hunting drug cartels for the FBI in the American Southwest. Honestly, Mycroft, do you think I could hide a drug habit from her? Or John, a physician?” The sweetness disappeared from his voice. “Can we please stay on topic? I can find out for MI-6 what they want, assuming the evidence upon which they made their assumption  is concrete, which I doubt. I need to know exactly what they think Agent Hunter knows and how much time I have to extract it.” 

“Honestly Sherlock,” Mycroft studied his tea cup as if he were a  seer divining the future from the tea leaves, “I hadn’t expected your cooperation, so I do not have the data you require. But I will get it for you. I will let MI-6 know you are cooperating, which will not only earn you more good grace, but will buy you more time to get the information from Agent Hunter as well as hunt Moriarty down. The end game is simple, Sherlock. There are no plans to have you executed for killing Magnussen, but there are others who see you as a threat.”

“Fortunately for me, our government was civilized enough to do away with capital punishment,” Sherlock purred. “Although MI-6’s paltry execution threats do amuse me.”

“And unfortunately for you, our enemies would have no problem having you quietly disappear. Like in a car wreck,” Mycroft pursed his lips together. Then said “Like Uncle Rudy,” he set the tea cup down on the table between himself and his brother. And then added, “And like Ford.”

“I see,” Sherlock said stiffly. “So it’s like that then.”

“Yes.”

“Understood,” Sherlock set his own cup down and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “We are beset by enemies, Brother Dearest.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, it would be dull if we got along with everyone. And you would be unemployed if the nations of the world could play nicely together. I do admit though,” Sherlock closed his eyes, disciplining his facial expressions, marshalling his body language, using all of his acting skills to convince his brother of the biggest lie he had ever told him in his adult life. “It is rather nice to be on the same side for once.”

“It is,” Mycroft agreed “A most welcome change. However… Victor…”

“And here we are on opposing sides again,” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “He’s not going to distract me from The Work, Mycroft. Hunting Moriarty is far more important to me than rekindling anything, even simple friendship, with Victor. Although Victor gave me a lead, inadvertently…”

Sherlock hesitated, the Earl’s ruined face swimming in front of him.

Mycroft saw the crack, the vulnerability. The pressure point. He pressed. Gently. “Heathcliff.”

Sherlock nodded then succinctly told him about the case he took for Victor’s sister-in-law.   

“Lady Elise,” Mycroft breathed, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “I remember her, vaguely. I could never put my finger on it, but I never quite believed she committed suicide.”

“She didn’t,” Sherlock said coldly. “And not only will I prove she didn’t kill herself, but I’ll prove that the Earl coerced Jepthro Rucastle into murdering her so he could claim her share of the Cullen-Culpepper inheritance.”

Sherlock found himself surprised to see a look of extreme sadness cross Mycroft’s face. “Proceed with extreme caution Sherlock. Rucastle is a nothing, but Heathcliff is still a very dangerous man. He’s causing trouble in Parliament, still pushing for transparency.”

“Still trying to get MI-6 shut down and you out of the way.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that won’t do, since I’m indebted to you for saving my life. And I need you to abuse your position of power as a personal favor to me.”

 “Oh, of course you do.”

Sherlock paused to cough in the crook of his arm. Then he reached inside his suit jacket to produce a slip of paper. “Can some sort of job offer be made to this individual? Something not very tasking but pays well enough to lure her away from her current occupation?” Sherlock leaned over and put the paper in Mycroft’s jacket pocket.

Mycroft frowned at his brother’s refusal to recognize personal space. He took the paper out of the jacket pocket, read the name, address, mobile number and current occupation on the slip of paper. “Do I even want to know why I am doing this for you?”

“Nope.”

“Of course not. Fortunately ambassadors and politicians are always looking for reliable nannies,” he tucked the paper inside his suit jacket again. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock stood up “Now if you will excuse me, but I have loads of work to do. Good-day, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned around, clasped his hands behind his back. Lifted his eyebrows.

“Stay away from Victor Trevor.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes like a petulant teenager. “Anything else?”

Mycroft reached for his iPad. “Get that cough looked at. It sounds dreadful.”

**

Meanwhile, while Sherlock and Mycroft were having their somewhat amicable discussion, Violet found herself climbing the walls at 221B Baker Street.

Literally climbing the walls. As in scaling Sherlock’s shelves to reach a book.

Since she didn’t know Sherlock’s plan for the Rucastle case nor the serial killing case with the burnt corpses, Violet decided to take advantage of the quiet flat and prepare a lesson plan for Archie when he got back from his holiday in France. 

She woke up after a night of tossing and turning to find the flat empty. Gone were the days of Sherlock hovering over her like a guard dog, but Violet knew Big Brother kept tabs on her in other ways. Right now was not the best time to press her luck...

Didn’t necessarily mean she had completely ruled out making a run for it if she got the chance. Just meant now was not the time.

Besides, for the first time in years, Violet felt absolutely secure where she lived. Only a mad man would try and break into 221B these days…  

_Did you miss me?_

Violet squeezed her eyes tightly, clinging onto the shelves with her fingertips while standing on her tiptoes on one of the lower shelves.

Her left hand, after months of nothing, started trembling uncontrollably.

“Stop it,” she told herself, squeezing her hand into a fist, pushing out of her head the image of Jim Moriarty murdering her partner then, covered in Steven’s blood, coming for her… _I own you, do you understand?_

Violet took a deep breath. Moriarty is dead, has to be dead, he blew his freaking brains out all over the rooftop of St. Bart’s. How could he have survived _that_?

She had a feeling they were chasing a ghost, someone had resurrected Moriarty’s name in order to start a panic. _Well… it was working_.

Meanwhile, Gladstone paced in a circle below her, whining.

“I’m OK, Stone,” she told the dog, “ _Hinsetzen_.”

The dog sank to his haunches, looked up at her.

“OK,” she said, reaching for the book she wanted: _The Little Prince_ by [Antoine de Saint-Exupéry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoine_de_Saint-Exup%C3%A9ry), in the original French, of course. She could see a kid as imaginative and adventurous as Archie enjoying the fantastical tale of a little boy traveling through outer space. She could also picture Sherlock losing himself in such a fantastical tale as a young child, although now he would probably sneer at the book for its sentimentality.

She grinned and grabbed the book.

And immediately lost her balance.

She didn’t have far to fall. The avalanche of books falling on top of her was what hurt. Fortunately she reflexively curled up into a ball and covered her head just before the books tumbled on top of her. Gladstone yipped and hopped away. Once the avalanche ended, he came back, whining, sniffing at his supine mistress.

“Ow,” she said, sitting up, rubbing her arms and shoulders where the books had hit her. “Oh, buddy, I’m OK,” she said, reaching for the dog, resting her forehead against Gladstone’s doggy brow. Satisfied Gladstone gave her a very wet lick on her cheek and trotted off to his favorite place: Sherlock’s battered old sofa.

More annoyed than hurt, she flexed her left hand over and over. At least the tremor stopped… for now. But it hadn’t shaken like that since her trip with “the boys” and Mary to Scotland a few months ago.

She hadn’t even realized her hand shook like that until Sherlock had pointed it out to her.

_Psychosomatic_ , she decided as she started gathering up the books. _Has to be… but maybe I should ask John to take a look sometime. If it happens again or gets worse…_

She suddenly felt nauseated… she had fired her gun once with _her left hand_. When Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty’s former Number Two had tried to take a shot at Sherlock last March, it had been instinctual. Her left hand had been the closest to her weapon so she reached, pulled it out and fired… killing Moran.

She wasn’t left-handed. It was a once in a lifetime shot… she was fucking lucky and she knew it… _because what if her hand had started shaking then?_   

_OK, I’ll ask John about it the next time I see him… hello, what’s this?_ She interrupted her own musing about her shaking hand when she saw a photograph lying on ground next to the books.

Curiosity piqued, she put the books she had already picked up back down. Reached for the photograph, she assumed the picture must have fallen out of one of the books.

She pushed a curl out of her eyes and peered at the picture. It was old, obviously. Faded and yellowing, an actual photograph, not a digital print out. Taken with an old 35MM camera that used film, developed with chemicals in a darkroom. Violet felt like she was handling an antique.

Three grinning faces stared up at her from the photograph. A candid photograph of a very small boy, a much older (and very chubby) boy and a young man, sitting on the lawn, summertime as all three were barefoot. The little boy laughed at the young man (who had to be the one who had said or done  something to make him laugh) while the older boy looked on affectionately.

She recognized the little boy as Sherlock immediately, the shaggy black hair and the eyes of course. The old picture didn’t do justice to the chameleon-like irises but still it was undoubtedly him with those almond shaped eyes… and they were crinkled up in laughter, gazing up at the young man who held him adoringly.

Violet found herself smiling, melting a bit. _Oh my God, he’s so little! He’s actually… cute._

The young boy to the right, his pudgy hand on Sherlock’s small bare foot, probably had been tickling it, had to be Mycroft. She had to hold the photograph closer to make sure it really was Mycroft. The fact that the fat kid had a full head of hair and was smiling warmly at the little boy threw Violet off as well. But after studying the eyes and the shape of the mouth, Violet decided the fat kid _had_ to be Mycroft… _Dear God, Sherlock was right, Mycroft was a pork chop_ , Violet didn’t bother suppressing a mean little laugh at Mycroft’s expense

But the young man… cuddling the little boy, playing with him, making him giggle. Handsome. Same dark curls as Sherlock, same almond shaped eyes, but not the same nose or mouth. Far too young to be Mycroft and Sherlock’s father… but someone both Holmes brothers absolutely worshipped. Even though Mycroft was smiling at Sherlock in the picture, Violet could tell, just by how closely Mycroft sat to  the young man and his brother, this was someone Mycroft felt close to… same eyes and hair as Sherlock… family, obviously, but how?

Violet reached into her memories, into her research, biting her lip. Mycroft and Sherlock don’t have any other brothers…

She flipped the photograph over. In faded, feminine handwriting, it said the following:

Summer ’80 The Holmes Boys:   
Ford – 18, Will  - 4, Mickey - 11

“Ford…” Violet murmured, tapping the photograph against her chin. “Where have I heard that…”

She breathed in sharply, looked at the photograph again.

Remembering when they finally got Sherlock back from Jack Woodley safe and sound after they had kept him constantly supplied with cocaine-and-heroin speedballs… Sherlock’s ranting as he hallucinated while coming down…

_… you promised, you promised…I’ll tell… I’ll tell Mummy and Papa… I’ll tell Ford… I’ll tell everyone… I am not a stupid little boy… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I won’t… please don’t… I just want him to stop hurting me… Mike, don’t go…_

While watching Sherlock fight his inner demons, she had silently mouthed to John: _Who’s Ford?_

But John, bewildered, had shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and mouthed back, _Dunno_.

“Ford,” she said again, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by all the books that had fallen on her. Talking out loud to sort out her thoughts, she studied the photograph again “Was there an older brother? Maybe a stepbrother, wait, no, this has been a first and only marriage for their parents… what did I miss?”

Obviously something huge, something important…

_I’ll tell Ford…_

Whoever this Ford was, he was considered a part of the family. He was one of the “Holmes Boys.” He resembled Sherlock a bit and more importantly he was someone Sherlock had felt comfortable enough with to possibly confide in, to use as a threat against Mycroft.

_I promised Sherlock I wouldn’t pry into his personal life anymore though…_ Violet remembered guiltily. But she studied the photograph again _… as long as it didn’t affect me personally._   

_I’ll tell Ford…_

She racked her brains again. No one mentioned a Ford Holmes anywhere. Not her old superior, not the Homeless Network when she hired them to dig up dirt on Mycroft.

_I’ll tell Ford…_

What if Sherlock _did_ tell this Ford? What if this Ford had decided to confront the Earl? What if something… unfortunate had happened to this Ford?

She looked at the picture again, ignoring the chunky Mycroft, zeroing in on the handsome young man and the little boy. Forever frozen in a photograph, forever _Will_. A giggly little boy looking with unconditional love at the slender man who held him. Barely a man, really, still technically a teenager. All three of the Holmes Boys in that photograph had been blissfully unaware that in three years the sadistic Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper would spoil Sherlock’s innocence, ruin his childhood, destroy his relationship with Mycroft.

Yes, something had happened to the handsome young man, holding the four-year-old Sherlock. Something that had made Sherlock shut this sentimental photograph of a loving family in a book to be forgotten. A symbolic deletion.

Violet had a feeling if she asked Sherlock about “Ford” he would merely lift his brows and say “Who?”

_We’re going after the Earl again_ , Violet gnawed at her lower lip again. _Because of the Rucastle case, thanks to Victor Fucking Trevor. I need all the ammunition I can get… so, it’s just research. Once I confirm Ford has nothing to do with anything, I’ll drop it…_

So she told herself.  

She startled when a series of soft knocks came from the door.

Jumping to her feet, she called out “Who is it?” in her faux British accent, picking up the gun she left lying on the side table next to “John’s chair.”

Just because she felt safe in 221B Baker Street didn’t mean she acted carelessly.

“Violet? It’s Mary Watson, may I come in?”

_What the hell? Oh today is going to be full of surprises, I can feel it_. “Just a moment, I’m not decent,” she answered, glad for once ‘Miss Smith’ was slightly stuffy and prudish. She stuck the photograph in the back pocket of her jeans then hurried to put the gun in her old black messenger bag. She pulled the hair-tie from her wrist and pulled her hair back into a sloppy bun. She snatched up her last “Miss Smith” accessory, a pair of fake eyeglasses and put them on before answering the door.

“Mary!” she cried out, shocked at Mary’s appearance.

Any trace of the Mary Watson Violet knew was gone. There was no sign of the plucky, witty nurse who egged John and Sherlock on in their adventures. There was also no sign of the stone-cold killer who showed herself to Violet last night either.

The woman literally looked like she had seen a ghost. Her face had no color whatsoever, except for huge purplish rings under her eyes. Even her lips were white. She clutched a newspaper so tightly, it crumpled.

Violet put her arm around Mary’s shoulders and ushered her inside, as if she were  ill.

“What happened? Is it the boys? Did something happen to John?” Violet couldn’t think what could rattle Mary this badly.  “Please, sit down, you’re scaring me.”

“It’s not the boys,” Mary could barely get the words out. “At least, not directly,” she sank down onto the sofa as if her legs gave way.

Violet shooed Gladstone away and sat across from Mary on the coffee table. “Mary. Talk to me.”

“I do need your help, Violet,” Mary said hollowly.

“Me? Are you positive? Wouldn’t you rather Sherlo-”

Mary started shaking her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “He’ll tell John. Plus Sherlock needs to focus on his caseload and on finding Moriarty. I can’t distract him. He would drop everything to solve this mystery and…”

“Mary,” Violet took a risk, reached over and clasped Mary’s upper arms. “What happened?”

In a dead voice, Mary repeated what she had overheard in the loo at Molly and Lestrade’s wedding. “Now, can you see why I can’t tell John? Not yet at least.”

Stunned, Violet could only stare at Mary. She tried to form words and failed. So she only nodded, letting Mary go.

“Then in today’s paper, I found this,” she unrolled the newspaper and handed it to Violet.

It was a brief, sad story that hadn’t even warranted a full column. Mary had circled it in a red pen so Violet wouldn’t have had to waste time searching for it:

“Jennifer Kay Boyle,” Violet said out loud but skimmed the rest to herself… _31 years old… NICU nurse… hit-and-run automobile accident… survived by parents and brothers and sisters…_

“You don’t think this was an accident,” Violet took off her glasses, rubbing her eyes.

Mary shook her head, struggling to keep from falling apart.

Violet opened her mouth to say that was quite a leap to make… but she shut her mouth quickly and furrowed her brows when she felt that strange… _something_ … spark within her, tingling. Her “spidey sense.”The intuition Sherlock would have ridiculed if she had ever told him how much she relied on it.

It had saved her life too many times to ignore it. 

“Well… I don’t either,” Violet confessed after chewing her bottom lip. It was one of her unfortunate “tells” that Sherlock had gleefully pointed out to her. Whenever she struggled with a dilemma, she chewed her lower lip… and not like some provocative siren either… 

“You look like a chipmunk with an overbite when you gnaw on your lip,” he had cheerfully informed her… right before she chucked the Union Jack pillow at his head.

She rubbed her lower lip, resolved to stop biting it again and went on: “It’s just too… coincidental not to mention convenient for a young woman who just happens to be the same nurse who took care of your baby to get run down on her way to work.” 

“I knew it,” Mary balled her fists. “I _felt_ it. Here,” she pressed her fists against her chest, close to her heart. “My daughter is alive, Violet. Someone took her. Will you help me find her?”

_A tall order, lady_ , Violet immediately thought… but then thought about John. How absolutely shattered he looked last night when he told her they had a set-back, that Mary wasn’t pregnant. 

“What’s her name?” Violet asked, “Your daughter.” _Her name will make her real to me… not just a tiny ghost haunting everyone… a real live little girl._

“Marissa,” Mary’s voice shook. “John wanted some sort of variation of ‘Mary’ and neither one of us liked ‘Marie’ or ‘Maria’ so…” she raised her hand to her eyes. “We were going to call her ‘Maisie’ for short, John thought it sounded cute,” and she dissolved into tears.

The federal agent leaned forward and embraced the assassin tightly.

“Then we’ll still call her Maisie, OK?” Violet held Mary tight, knowing that her “American” was waving like the Stars and Stripes themselves, but she didn’t care. This woman desperately needed a hug.

Mary nodded, clung to Violet for a moment more, then withdrew. ”Sorry,” she dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Don’t apologize,” Violet got up and looked around, searching the lounge for a box of tissues. Spying them on Sherlock’s desk, she went to get them then sat down next to Mary on the sofa. As Mary pulled tissues out of the box, Violet said, “I have a deal with Sherlock, you see. That I won’t pry into his private life until it directly involves me… and vice-versa, actually. Otherwise we’d drive each other mad. I… I know we both are hiding in plain sight and we both have very dark pasts we’re trying to outrun… but I can’t help you, unless you tell me honestly about anyone and everyone who may bear a grudge against you or John.” 

Mary thought about her old life, her dark life. Her lonely, bloody life, the one she swore off when she arrived in London ten years ago. Alone, frightened… _but free_. Free to fall in love, free to marry, to have a family… to live quietly…

… but the love of her life was not a man who wanted a nice, quiet life.

“Jim Moriarty,” she bowed her head. “I can’t think of a single person who is capable of…”

_… standing on the tarmac, New Year’s Day, the smell of jet fuel… John and Sherlock saying what they thought were their final goodbyes. Feeling Mycroft Holmes’ eyes on her… she looked up, saw those soulless orbs of his, staring at her protruding belly, then looking into her eyes, as if he peered into the very depths of her soul…_

_… the quick, nasty little smile he had flashed at her then how he turned his back…_

_… how her heart had started racing, how she could actually feel it slamming against her chest, how the baby’s kicks hadn’t felt right, felt jittery, not fluttery…the taste of bile in her mouth as realization sank home_. He knows. He knows I shot Sherlock…

“… doing something that evil,” Mary closed her eyes.

_She’s lying_ Violet thought irritably…

… while Mary simultaneously thought, _She doesn’t know I’m the one who shot Sherlock_.

“Are you sure?” Violet gave Mary one last chance to come clean.

“Who else has the resources in order to do something like that?” Mary answered Violet’s question with a question.

_Mycroft Holmes,_ Violet instantly thought. _But… that makes zero sense. What would be his motive? Kidnapping the Watson baby would not keep Sherlock safe, plus placing Sherlock’s safety above the safety of the British populace does not fit with Mycroft’s profile. Also Mycroft is not_ sentimental _enough to kidnap a child to place in the Brit version of WitPro in order to keep her safe either, even if it is John Watson’s baby, his brother’s_ ipso facto _goddaughter... So until evidence proves otherwise, Moriarty’s the prime suspect._

“Somebody had to have seen something,” Violet mused, leaning back in the sofa, crossing her arms. “Maisie was still a preemie. You can’t just waltz out of hospital with a baby born two months early. How much money do you have Mary?”

“Sorry, what?”

“The Homeless Network is expensive,” Violet hated asking. _And now it’s my turn to lie_. _Can’t tell her I have to ask Sherlock for an allowance because his fucking brother won’t unfreeze my bank accounts._ “Sherlock will notice if I make a large withdrawal from my accounts, and believe me, he’ll notice. It is going to be a major challenge to keep this, err, little side project of ours hidden from Sherlock.”

“He has two cases going on at once at the moment,” Mary said thoughtfully. “That might be enough to distract him for a little while. I just don’t want to get John’s hopes up in case I’m wrong or,” her voice started to wobble again, “If she’s really dead.”

“Mary, I’m treating this as an abduction, not a homicide.”

Mary pounced on those words. “You were some sort of cop in your old life, weren’t you? Only law enforcement would use words like abduction and homicide instead of kidnapping and murder. I’ve wondered ever since you found those four strange books in my house after the break-in last March and you asked if I had either paper or plastic bags.”  

“ _I vy russkiy_ ,” Violet looked at Mary unflinchingly.

“Your pronunciation is spot-on,” Mary said in The King’s English. “But I _was_ Russian. I’m not anymore.” _Just like you’re not an American anymore, not really_ , Mary thought. Out loud, she said “And I want my daughter to be raised British, not Russian.” Mary shuddered, then added darkly, “Or whatever God only knows what kind of life her captors have planned for her.”

“So we’ll need money,” Violet said, falling back on familiar territory. When in doubt, be practical and make plans. “I can’t make gigantic withdrawals without Sherlock noticing and we’ll need to double-payoff The Homeless Network. First, we need the Homeless Network to find a witness to the kidnapping, even if it’s just grainy surveillance video. Maisie was two months early. There had to be something, like an ambulance with the proper equipment needed to care for a preemie, waiting somewhere. Second, we need the Homeless Network to not tell Sherlock what we’re up to… that’s actually going to break the bank, I’m afraid…”

_Unless I tap into the blood money sitting in Jack Woodley’s offshore account…_ she debated, unwilling to touch money earned through others’ pain and bloodshed.

But Mary piped up, “Oh, I have money, that’s not a problem.”

Violet arched an eyebrow. “John won’t notice?”

Mary blanched a little, “Um… err… it’s a little nest-egg I had from… before.”

“Ah,” was all Violet said.

She was dangerously close to overloading on secrets today. And it was only a little after one. 

“OK,” Violet reached for her glasses on the coffee table. Putting them back on, she said, “Let’s get to work and find out how much this enterprise is going to cost us.”

** 

Later that afternoon, instead of enjoying a nice late lunch at Angelo’s like Sherlock promised, John found himself standing in the sweltering summer heat at another crime scene.

But the stench from the rubbish and the corpse put John off of the idea of lunch… or eating ever again, actually.

Sergeant Alex MacDonald gave John the run-down, in her usual sparse manner in an alley between two less popular West End theatres while Sherlock stood on his tiptoes to gaze into the giant rubbish bin.

“Cleaning lady found the body when taking out the rubbish. Then chundered,” she pointed to a puddle of sick not very far from the bin, “Then called 999. Body’s burnt up like the others.”

“That’s different from the other murders,” John mused as he scratched notes in his little casebook as his stomach clenched and unclenched threateningly. “Why was this one dumped in a bin but the others were positioned like marionette puppets in front of the theatres?”

MacDonald shrugged.

John wasn’t quite used to MacDonald’s quiet ways yet. He often found himself waiting for her to say more. While her silences could be unsettling, it was still loads better than Donovan’s nasty retorts or Anderson’s ( _God rot his soul_ ) pretentious educated guesses.

“Right,” John said when he finally realized she had nothing more to contribute to the conversation at that moment. “Sherlock? Any ideas?” He held his hand to his nose, not caring if he was being _obvious_.

The corpse reeked to high heaven, like pork that had turned. 

But Sherlock looked fondly at the body as if it was not crawling with maggots but rather as if it were  a cuddly fluffy puppy. “Three,” he said dreamily. “Sergeant MacDonald, the other three bodies, all female, all burned postmortem, correct?”

“Call me Alex,” MacDonald said laconically, “And yeah.”

“Very well,” Sherlock tip-toed around the bin, looking at the body at different angles. Then he hoisted himself up onto the bin itself, sitting precariously on the sticky edge of the nasty bin. “Alex, why do you think the murderers are burning the bodies, not into ash and dust, but just enough to destroy any identifying features, birthmarks, fingerprints, hair, so on and so forth?”

“Dunno,” Alex said. “Not done with m’research.”

John caught the self-satisfied grin on Sherlock’s face. It had been a trick question. The obvious answer would have been _to destroy any identifying features, of course_. But Alex gave the correct answer, an honest answer.

“What does DI Mason think?” John asked as Sherlock took out his Smartphone to take pictures.

Alex didn’t even bother to hide her eye roll. “Whitey’s a few sammies short of a picnic. Makes me miss Lestrade. Oh and head’s up, boys, the temp pathologist’s next to useless as well.”

 “Oh,” John said glumly, remembering Sherlock’s longwinded tirade about the general incompetence of Molly’s replacement during their cab ride to the scene. “We know.”

Sherlock hopped down from the bin. “That bumbling, self-aggrandizing buffoon has no right to go near a morgue, although there was probably nowhere else he could work in the medical profession as he would probably kill all the living patie-” Sherlock grimaced in the middle of his rant, crooked his arm and coughed thickly into his elbow. “Kill all the living patients off.”

John frowned. ”You OK?”

“Fine, I’m fine, the odor is getting to me,” Sherlock rested on his heels again, knowing he had seen all that could be seen in the bin. He crouched  beside the bin and took photographs of the grimy pavement. Then he sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and skirted around the puddle of sick elegantly as a ballet dancer and strolled over to the doctor and the cop. “I need to examine this body properly at the morgue. That moron Bodley wouldn’t allow me to see the last one found,” he whined as he fished his handkerchief out and blew his nose.

“Probably because you announced in front of the entire staff he was shagging the charge nurse up in Dermatology,” John reminded him as Sherlock folded the handkerchief and tucked it neatly back inside the suit jacket he still insisted on wearing in this heat. At least he had left the bloody Belstaff and scarf at home.

“How is that my fault? He was being obvious. All anybody had to do was to observe how he changed the way he combed his hair over his bald spot, not to mention how his adult acne miraculously started clearing up and would have come to same conclusion.”

“But that doesn’t mean you should _announce_ that conclusion to everyone present, does it?”

“You two have this same chat often, eh?” Alex said as the three of them turned away from the bins and walked out of the claustrophobic alley.

“More than I care to admit,” John said, tucking his notebook and pen into the back pocket of his jeans. “God, it’s hot,” he wiped the sweat from his brow, then wiped his hand on his jeans “Going to make time of death a bloody bitch to calculate, body already melting to mush.”

“Yep,” Alex agreed.

“The victim was murdered three days ago,” Sherlock proclaimed as he lifted the police tape up so John and Alex could walk under it without bending over too much. “You can tell by the smell you keep complaining about, John. The victim will probably be some sort of office temp or waitress with aspirations of stardom like the other three.”

“Holmes!” a big voice boomed cheerfully behind them.

“God save me,” Sherlock muttered, turning away from DI Mason. 

His white hair practically shone in the bright sunshine. Tall, with a pot belly, he was prone to wearing ill-fitting suits he bought anyway because they were designer labels he had found on a discount. He thought they made him look distinguished. Everyone else thought they made him look like an idiot.

“Terrible business this is,” Mason said after shaking Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock extradited his long, slender fingers from Mason’s sweaty hand as quickly as possible. _Would like to play the violin again, thank you very much_ , he thought wearily as he declined to get into the pissing match Mason attempted to instigate: _who has the firmer grip?_

“Yes, you certainly are in a terrible business,” Sherlock agreed. “Perhaps you should open a sweet shop, if you’re looking for a pleasant business to get into,” he eyed Mason’s pot belly with open contempt…. remembering how this bastard nearly broke his arm when he arrested him on a drugs bust… but Lestrade had interceded… _Leave him alone, he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time… I said leave him, you’re going to snap his fucking arm in two…_

“Not much manhandling in a pleasant business like that at all,” poison dripped from Sherlock’s tongue as he glowered at Mason.

John and Alex, confused, looked back and forth between the detective inspector and the Consulting Detective.

Mason also looked confused. 

Sherlock wanted to reach out and slap him. _He doesn’t even remember me from back then. I was that… insignificant to him. And people wonder why I bloody_ loathe _The Met._

“Right, so,” Mason floundered. Even though he had been warned about Sherlock’s capricious behavior, he had no idea how to deal with it. He also had no memory of arresting Sherlock nearly ten years ago either. The charges didn’t stick, so Mason did indeed forget all about it. He honestly did not remember that once Sherlock had been another pathetic, shivering junkie coming down from a high. He only saw Sherlock as the sneering, intimidating (and some whispered _immortal_ ) Great Consulting Detective now towering over him. “We’re thinking the bodies are being burnt up in order to destroy any identifying features, birthmarks, fingerprints, hair, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock intoned. “The burning is ritualistic.”

“Ritual… oh God,” Mason groaned, but not out of compassion for the victims, as his next words would reveal: “Christ, man. Do not say that within shouting distance of the bloody press. They are already having a field day because it looks like a serial killer is on the loose.”

“A serial killer is on the loose,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mason’s stupidity. “The press actually got something correct for a change. Although it was probably by accident and not because any of those fools did their research.”

“Well, they don’t need to announce that there’s a satanic serial killer on the loose either!”

“I did not say ‘satanic’. I said ‘ritualistic’,” Sherlock’s fingers itched to just haul off and hit the man square in the nose for a knockout punch. Sadly, the police did not look favorably upon their own getting hit in the face… as John had learned the hard way, years ago.

“Sergeant MacDonald,” John said politely to the quiet woman. It probably wouldn’t do to call her ‘Alex’ in front of her superior. “You said you were doing some research regarding this case, but we got sidetracked. What kind of research?” 

“Said to call me Alex,” she said mildly. “Medieval history to start, the hysteria about witches… how you’re supposed to burn ‘em.”

“Hmm…” Sherlock said as his bushy brows crinkled together in thought. “No…” he shook his head. “Too obvious. And also, in Elizabethan times, the punishment for witchcraft was hanging. If one would have taken the time to observe, all three of the theatres where the first three bodies were discovered, are all showing classic Shakespearean plays. But, Alex, I do want you to continue digging. I recommend recent history. Start reading old cases regarding arsons, go back at least thirty years. Our villain is an artist. He has been practicing his craft for quite some time now.”

“’K,” Alex’s voice remained mild as she tapped a reminder to herself into her Smartphone. “You believe this guy,” she tilted her head back towards the crime scene, “Is some sort of pyromaniac?”

“Oh, John, I _like_ her,” Sherlock purred as he dug into his suit jacket and plucked out one of his business cards. “Send me whatever you find. Here’s my contact information.”

“Hang on, I’m her supervisor,” Mason suddenly became very red in the face as Alex took Sherlock’s card. “She should be sending her research to me for review.”

“Yes, but I’ll be the one who will actually solve the case,” Sherlock sniped back. “So it’s only logical that she should send the information to me directly.”

Then his text alert sounded… a breathy erotic moan.

“What the blazes?” Mason spluttered, glaring at Alex.

She met his gaze evenly and shook her head. “Nope. Not mine.” 

“Not yours, what? Not your moan or not your text alert?” Mason demanded as Sherlock took out his Smartphone to check the message.

“M’wife would kill me if that was my text alert,” Alex said flatly.

Meanwhile John hissed at his friend: “Sherlock, you promised you were going to change that.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, frowning. Then looked up and said, “Good day,” sharply to Mason and without any other word of warning, stalked away from everyone.

“Right…uh, we’ll be in touch,” John tried to smile but ended up turning on his heel and chasing after Sherlock. “Sherlock, Sherlock, wait! Hold up!”

Sherlock did not stop, but he did slow down enough for John to catch up. “Dinner?” he asked once John was beside him.

“What?”

“Are you in the mood for an early dinner tonight? In about an hour or so?”

“Dinn- what… no. Sherlock!” John wanted to throttle him. “I was in the mood for a late lunch around one-thirty. Instead I spent the entire afternoon standing around a half-melted, half-burnt body during a heat wave. What I am in the mood for is a cold shower and to incinerate these clothes.” John pulled the collar of his shirt to his nose, inhaled then pulled the shirt down again. The smell of death indeed had baked into the fabric. _And I liked this shirt…_

“I need an excuse,” Sherlock said almost inaudibly.

“An excuse? Since when have you needed an excuse to get out of an engagement you don’t want to attend? You have no problem telling people to piss off.”

Sherlock stopped walked, screwed his face up in supreme irritation then shoved his Smartphone into John’s face.

John read out loud:

My last night in London for a while  
How do you feel about getting a pint  
tonight? If you don’t already have plans –VT

“Ah,” John said as Sherlock stuffed the Smartphone back into his trouser pocket and resumed walking at his long-legged quick clip. “Persistent, isn’t he?”

“Quite,” Sherlock said through his teeth. “Some things truly do not change.”

“You’re afraid if you lie to him, he’ll just show up at Baker Street again.”

“Wrong. He’ll know that I’m lying.” When John only gave Sherlock a confounded look, Sherlock rolled his eyes, shook his head and coughed into his hand. “He’s known me since I was eighteen years old, John. He knows me well enough to realize when I am, as Mary quaintly puts it, _fibbing_.”

“Why don’t you establish boundaries with him… like an adult?”

“I did,” Sherlock coughed again. “I told him I wanted to solve the Rucastle case first then we can discuss the possibility of friendship.” He rubbed his sternum, wincing.

“So boundaries mean shit to him.”

“Oh your deductive skills are improving by leaps and bounds.”

“No need to get ratty,” John snapped. “Oh and here’s another deduction. How long have you had that cough?”

“I smoked too many cigarettes last night John. It will pass. I’m going to buy some nicotine patches tonight. Now, are you going continue nagging me like an old woman or are you and your lovely yet slightly homicidal wif-”

“Stop calling her that in public!”

“-going to join my imaginary girlfriend and me for dinner tonight at Angelo’s so I can tell my inconsiderate ex to piss off, I already have plans?”  

John stopped walking and closed his eyes. “Yes. Of course. But you’re buying.”

“Wrong. Mycroft is,” Sherlock pulled out a shiny black credit card out of his other pocket. “I pinched this from him when I met with him at the Diogenes Club.”

John couldn’t help himself. He started laughing in the way only Sherlock could make him laugh. Soon Sherlock’s deeper chuckles joined in, punctuated by coughing.

“You really need to get that looked at,” John scolded him mildly when they stopped to hail a cab.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock said absently as a cab slowed down for his raised hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character names DI "Whitey" Mason and Sergeant Alex MacDonald were inspired by Inspector White Mason and Inspector Alec MacDonald in ACD's "The Valley of Fear."


	8. Three Times the Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know if you realize or if Sherlock had told you, but… Mary and I had a bit of a falling out last year.”
> 
> “Oh?”
> 
> “We separated, actually. Around this time.”
> 
> “Oh.”
> 
> “You really didn’t know?”
> 
> “Sherlock didn’t tell me. And, sorry to disappoint you, but my focus was on Sherlock, not you and Mary. I knew he had been snooping around Magnussen’s penthouse for a case and had gotten shot, nearly died. The official story was you moved back in to help him recuperate.”
> 
> “That was partially true,” John wondered if he should tell Violet the rest…
> 
> My wife shot my best friend…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the late posting... this is the first time I've been able to touch a computer in three days. I PROMISE I will respond to comments tomorrow but tonight, I am nearly dead on my feet... but thank you for commenting and reading as always! :^)

Chapter Eight: Three Times the Lady

22 July 2015  
John and Mary’s residence  
Wednesday   
1:59 AM

The early dinner had turned into a long one because once they all sat down and placed their orders, Sherlock immediately demanded a progress report from John regarding the late Lady Elise’s medical charts. So instead of a nice leisurely dinner with friends, it had turned into work. The strange thing was, Sherlock didn’t say much, other than to grunt or to cough. He had nibbled at garlic toast and actually imbibed in two glasses of wine. Most of the meal, however, he had listened silently… or appeared to be listening, when in reality he was lost in thought. Until he abruptly announced he was tired and wanted to go home, then asked Angelo for the cheque.  Of course Angelo cheerfully told him “Your money’s no good here, Sherlock!” 

So it had been quite late when John and Mary got home. They had tromped up the stairs, kicked off their shoes, changed into their pyjamas and collapsed into bed.

John actually was exhausted, but Mary was restless again. She also had been very quiet during the meal and ate very little of the excellent linguine alfredo she had ordered. John and Violet had done most of the talking, tossing theories back and forth. Violet’s psychology background had started to show during the discussions, but John had figured among  the four of them, it was probably safe for Violet to reveal that side of her true self.

Fed up with Mary’s tossing and turning, John had kissed her on the temple and told her he was going to write for a bit. It had been a while since he posted a blog. He hadn’t posted since Sherlock solved that case about the Stock-broker’s Clerk last June.

But instead of writing, John ended up staring at his laptop, playing Minesweeper until around midnight.  Then his mobile vibrated with a text message:

Are you awake? – VS

The glasses of wine had prompted Violet’s text to John. Sherlock was not, as a rule, a drinker.

That had been nearly two hours ago.

He had picked up the mobile and his cooling cup of tea. Hit speed dial. “Of course I am,” he had told Violet and had been chatting with her ever since.

“So,” John stretched out on his sofa. “Is he sleeping now?”

Odd, really. Before he had moved to 221B Baker Street after his medical discharge from the military, he had never had long conversations with women before. He had always felt shy around girls when he was a young lad… mostly because the girls had all towered over him by the time he was in secondary school. Even as an adult, he didn’t have many close friends who were female. He’d rather have a pint with his mates from the rugby club or old military comrades rather than have a long conservation with a woman… unless he had planned to bed her, naturally. Back when he was still John “Three Continents” Watson.

But he just felt no attraction to Violet. Yes, she was pretty. He wasn’t blind and he wasn’t _dead_.

He just had no desire to _be_ with her. Like that.

Maybe it was because, despite the Great Detective’s protestations (or rather because of them), he still believed Sherlock fancied Violet, just a little. Or rather, as much as someone like Sherlock could possibly fancy someone. Besides, even if John wasn’t a married man, one just doesn’thit on a mate’s girl, even if your mate only has a little crush on her.

But he also felt no attraction to Violet because he did indeed have a wife. He could never betray Mary like that… although, truth be told, he had fantasized about cheating on her during their estrangement last summer after he had learned she shot Sherlock. Not because he wanted sex, but because he _really_ wanted to hurt her. Cut her heart out… _burn her heart out_ …

_Never mind, that’s behind us now_ , John had to remind himself sometimes.

In the end, as clichéd as it sounded, especially to his writer’s ears, he loved Violet like a sister. His own flesh-and-blood sister Harry was such a disappointing sibling, a drunk and an ingrate, selfish and uncommunicative… _didn’t even come to my wedding… I came to hers…_

Violet’s flesh-and-blood brother, Michael, the light of her life, the anchor in her tumultuous childhood, was dead. Killed by the very same people who sought Sherlock’s destruction.   

He supposed he and Violet filled the empty spaces in their hearts that Harry and Michael had left behind. And it was nice talking to someone once in a while who didn’t interrupt with a withering “Wrong” or “Boring” or just with a general noise of frustration and irritation.

He pictured Violet sitting on the sofa, below the spray-painted smiley face, wearing one of the t-shirts she had nicked from Sherlock’s wardrobe. He could easily imagine her scratching the ears of her beloved yet murderous dog as she said: “I haven’t heard a peep from him since he went to bed around ten or so. But if he doesn’t have some sort of PTSD nightmare tonight, he’ll have one tomorrow night. It’s a mathematical certainty at this point. This thing with Victor is messing with his head, big time.”

“Damn, and he had been doing so well. Hadn’t had one in months.”

“Not since our trip to Scotland, no,” Violet mused.

“Did you know about Victor Trevor… from your, ah, past research?”

“No, this blindsided me,” Violet admitted. “He’s not giving me a lot to go on either.”

“Of course not.”

“But he said Victor was his first-”

“Yeah, you said that in your text on Sunday when you told me to get to Baker Street ASAP.”

“But when I said ’first,’ when he said ‘first,’ it wasn’t just his ‘first time,’ Victor was his first _everything_. First friend, first love, first relationship, first heartbreak… this wasn’t just some forgotten fling. Victor’s definitely a trigger.”

“Do we need to start worrying about Danger Nights?” John delicately used Mycroft’s euphemism for Sherlock getting high.

It stayed silent on Violet’s end longer than John cared for. “I wouldn’t rule it out,” she finally, unwillingly said. “I mean, he was drinking tonight. He hardly ever touches alcohol. Also, well, you see, Victor said something very strange to me, when he and I were talking before he left Baker Street on Sunday.”

“What’s that?”

“He assumed I automatically didn’t like him because I had talked to Mycroft.”

“That is strange. Nobody talks to Mycroft. Not willingly.”

“Exactly. Speaking of unwillingly talking to Mycroft, I might suck it up and talk to him about Victor myself. I have to talk to the bastard anyway so he unfreezes my fucking checking account. Anyway, I’m sure The British Government already knows Victor’s back in Sherlock’s life, with as much goddamn surveillance he keeps on Baker Street.”

“A suggestion?” John ventured. “Why don’t I talk to him about Victor? It might look less suspicious if I go ask about him about it as a concerned friend. Given your past history with spying on the Holmes brothers and all, no offense,” he added apologetically. 

“Oh, none taken. I’ll keep trying to get Sherlock to open up but you would be my favorite person on the planet if you took one for the team and talked to Mycroft.”

John smiled. If John hated Mycroft, Violet _loathed_ him.

Her baby brother had been everything to her. She would have traded places with him in a heartbeat if that would have saved his life. She could not comprehend how Mycroft could continue to sell Sherlock out. And she most definitely did not understand how Mycroft could have turned a blind eye to the abuse Sherlock suffered as a child at the hands at the Earl.

Mycroft had even forbidden the seven-year-old Sherlock from telling their parents.

John already despised Mycroft for putting Sherlock  on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. After learning about that, what his friend had experienced as a child, John found himself wishing it had been Mycroft falling from the roof, Mycroft in the cold ground.

Again and again, he found himself wishing he had met Sherlock when they were both boys instead of grown men. How different everything would have been, for  both of them…. _I still wish we would have met years and years earlier. And it does not matter that I’m a bit older than him. I know I would have been his friend if we had met as kids. I would have told him to tell someone if he couldn’t tell his parents… and I would have beaten the hell out of Mycroft._

“We’re…” Violet hesitated. “I mean, this isn’t going behind his back, is it? Sherlock and I made a deal that I wouldn’t interfere in his private life unless it directly affects me or a case.”

John had no idea how Violet’s insides squirmed when she asked that. Because of how she was already digging into one of Sherlock’s secrets behind his back…

Her Google searches for “Ford Holmes” came up with nothing….

… not to mention her side project with Mary…

Meanwhile John struggled with his own guilty conscience. “Yeah,” he finally said as he absently scratched his stomach. “It is. We are going behind his back.”

“Shit,” she sighed. “OK, then we’ll just have to admit we talked to Mycroft about Victor. If we don’t tell him before he deduces what we did, he’ll be livid.” 

“I know, but he’s not giving us much of a choice, is he? Victor’s a definite problem because he’s not respecting Sherlock’s request for space until after the Rucastle case is done.”

“That’s not good, John. Pretty Boy could jeopardize the case.”

“How so?”

“If Victor starts hanging around Sherlock frequently, Rucastle might put two and two together and figure out Victor is Alice’s brother-in-law.

“Ah, fuck me, I didn’t even think about that,” John scrubbed at his tired eyes. “We can’t plan for contingencies like that if Sherlock’s not sharing anything about Victor with us until it’s an immediate problem. Like tonight.”

“He’s not telling us _anything_ about him. Or at least he’s not telling me, and I’m supposed to be, _ahem_ , Live-In, Very Serious girlfriend.”

“Violet, I didn’t even know Victor existed before Sunday. And I’m his best friend. It could not only affect the case we’re taking for Victor’s  sister-in-law. This could very well affect your safety, I’m sorry to say. He’s not a complete machine, you know. He has feelings. He just has masterful control over them. But if there’s something still between him and Victor… well, that could blow a giant hole in your cover story, couldn’t it?”

“There’s that, and…” she trailed off, then said in a small voice, “I don’t want to get in the way if they can pick up again where they left off… you know?”

“Yeah,” John studied the ceiling, wondering why he felt like he just got kicked in the chest. 

“Assuming Pretty Boy’s not a piece of shit, of course.”

John snorted “Well, that’s why I’m going to talk to Mycroft about Victor, isn’t it? If he is a piece of shit, we’ll scare him off, all of us.”

“After we solve the case and cash the check.”

“Well, yeah. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Just as long as we’re on the same page,” Violet said lightly. “Speaking of prying into people’s private lives…”

“Oh, here we go,” John shook his head as if she could see him, already knowing what she was about to ask him. “Go ahead, say it.”

“Mary hasn’t seemed like herself lately…”

“I know,” John tucked his arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, as if he could see his wife sleeping above him. “I thought at first it was just because she didn’t feel well, because of her hangover after Greg and Molly’s wedding. We were both hungover, actually. God, I think the last time I drank like that was…”

“Lestrade’s bachelor party?”

“Oh right, the fucking Ferris wheel,” John groaned.

Violet snorted. “She didn’t seem hungover though. She seemed…”

“Sad.”

“And deeply angry,” Violet added, very carefully.

Everyone had picked up the undercurrent of rage flowing below Mary’s sadness at dinner last night. Everyone had declined to comment on it. Violet had hoped Sherlock would comment on it, deduce why Mary vibrated with tension and suppressed rage for the selfish reason that she didn’t want to lie to Sherlock and John any more than she had to… but Sherlock had been deep inside his mind-palace during dinner, or so it seemed. 

John cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know if you realize or if Sherlock had told you, but… Mary and I had a bit of a falling out last year.”

“Oh?”

“We separated, actually. Around this time.”

“Oh.”

“You really didn’t know?”

“Sherlock didn’t tell me. And, sorry to disappoint you, but my focus was on Sherlock, not you and Mary. I knew he had been snooping around Magnussen’s penthouse for a case and had gotten shot, nearly died. The official story was you moved back in to help him recuperate.”

“That was partially true,” John wondered if he should tell Violet the rest…

_My wife shot my best friend…_

No. Telling Violet would be the equivalent of the starting gun firing at a horse race; her profiler’s mind would take off. John could barely stand Sherlock’s deduction of Mary, couldn’t bear knowing Mary shot Sherlock out of love for him, to provide John plausible deniability, so John would not be accused of harming Magnussen …and that Mary never intended to kill Sherlock…

… but John felt utterly terrified the profiler had found something the detective had not observed. That she would tell him something Sherlock had not… something that maybe Sherlock did not want to tell him… could not tell him. Sherlock was _no_ t a machine. He had feelings, he had liked Mary. Befriended her, helped her plan their wedding. Still even tried to save her from Magnussen after she had shot him…

John still worried that Sherlock was wrong, that he was in denial.

That Mary had indeed intended to kill Sherlock.

An old argument echoed in his head: _John, I know he’s your best friend and I know he’s going through some sort of rough patch right now. I’m not heartless. I don’t want him slipping away again either but there is going to be a time where you are going to have to choose between me and Sherlock…_

_I’m not heartless…_

She had pointed a gun at Sherlock. Pulled the trigger. Point-blank range.

At his heart.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve asked you this before. Do I need to worry about Mary?”

“No.”

“John,” there was an edge to Violet’s voice now. “Mycroft said, ‘ _Three_ of the best assassins are his best friends’, remember?”

Violet now pictured how Mary’s face had gone absolutely black in the kitchen of 221B just the night before. Only her love for John had brought her humanity back.

_God help the poor bastard who did take her daughter,_ Violet privately quailed.

“You don’t have to worry about Mary,” John forced conviction into his voice. “I have to worry about Mary. I am worried about Mary,” he finally confessed. “Yes, I moved back to 221B to help Sherlock recover from the shooting, but also because Mary and I had split up. I… considered divorcing her, actually. I thought I had made a mistake, getting married.”

“Cold feet?”

John wanted dearly to lie to her. But lying came so easily to him now, he didn’t like it. “No.”

Violet, like John, was also remembering a previous conversation. One she had with Sherlock:

_… You’re his best friend, he’d die for you and he thinks his feelings for you are wrong so he hides them, even from himself. And… you broke his heart when you jumped. Why is it so hard for you to see what he is going through?_

Sherlock had responded darkly, bitterly: _I see it. I see_ everything…

“You think you married the wrong person,” Violet selected the gender-neutral word on purpose.

“Yes,” John said immediately, swiftly followed by a “No. Of course not. I love Mary.”

“Just because you love somebody doesn’t mean that’s the person you’re supposed to end up with,” Violet said gently. “You went back to her out of guilt, because of the baby.”

There it was. The truth everyone thought but no one dared speak aloud.

Except for her.

“Even Sherlock has never said that out loud,” John said with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “You really do have balls of steel, don’t you?”

“Well… yeah. Except mine are tucked neatly inside me instead of hanging between my legs.”

“Once, twice, three times the lady, you are.”

“I know,” Violet said primly. But then soberly, added in a much kinder voice, “And don’t tear yourself apart about Mary, John. She loves you. She really does. I think you’re being very brave, trying to work things out with her. Most people would bail.”

“I’m not most people,” John ran his hand down his face, feeling tired again. “Hey, Violet, I’ve got a full day ahead of me and it’s after two o’clock.” 

“No-” Violet started to say but yawned instead. “You’re not the only one. I just… well, you know.”

“I do,” John said warmly. “I lived with him too, you know. It’s hard not to worry. And tell him to get that ruddy cough checked. It sounds horrible. Bronchial.”

“I’ll drag him to the doctor’s office myself, I promise,” Violet grinned. “And I went on a cleaning spree after Sherlock went to bed. All the cigarettes are now in the trash.”

“Good girl,” John chuckled. “Right, I’m off to bed.”

“Talk to you later,” Violet said and John rang off.

John had been right; she was wearing one of Sherlock’s old t-shirts and boxers as pyjamas. Mostly because lately it had been too blasted hot to wear her own nightgown she had bought right before Mycroft froze her assets. Gladstone, however, was nowhere in sight but Violet knew exactly where he was… the damn dog liked sleeping with Sherlock now.

_Traitor_ , she thought, her lips twitching into a smile as she got up to go clean her teeth and wash her face before going to bed…

… or really to experience another sleepless night. She was always tired these days but never really sleepy. Plus the sofa was not as comfortable as it looked, as least, not to sleep on night after night. Sherlock, again, pointed out there was a perfectly good bed upstairs in John’s room. Violet never felt comfortable up there. The skylight made her nervous. She had broken into 221B through that window multiple times so she always saw it as a weak spot. Now, with this recent heat wave and with Baker Street’s ancient and dicey air conditioning, the upstairs bedroom currently doubled as a sauna.

But mostly, Violet didn’t like spending much time up there because everyone still referred it to as “John’s room.” It made her feel like she was trespassing.   

She removed her heavy make-up with cleansing foam. She always made up her face before going out in public, to hide her freckles and her newest scar on her cheek. Then she soaked a cotton ball with extract of witch hazel to remove whatever traces of cosmetics she had missed and took out a jar of coconut oil and applied generously to her clean face.

This had been her beauty routine since she was sixteen years old.

She studied her face in the mirror. A serious, freckled face with a scar on her right cheek, faint crow’s feet around the eyes and deepening smile lines around her mouth stared back.

She touched the smile lines, then the scar on her cheek then the scar on her neck. Those hadn’t been there when she had left for England.

She shook her head, refusing to give in to the melancholy, to the _dépaysement_ , the strange feeling that was less than disorientation but so much more than homesickness.

.She shook her head, resumed cleaning her teeth then plaited her curls into a loose braid.

She turned off the light in the master bathroom and headed back towards the lounge.Since she couldn’t sleep, she decided to do some more research into Jepthro Rucastle’s second wife, the lovely but apparently vapid “Trixie Holiday.” Violet shut the bathroom door (so Gladstone wouldn’t go in and drink from the toilet) and turned to go back to the lounge when she heard a soft, piteous moan from Sherlock’s bedroom.

_Here we go._ Violet closed her eyes and squared her shoulders. She did an about-face and walked towards Sherlock’s room instead.

If John’s PTSD dreams were bad, Sherlock’s were far worse. Memories of The Fall, The First Shooting and The Second Shooting and the Earl were all woven together into a hideous tapestry within Sherlock’s mind palace… the part even he couldn’t control. His subconscious.

Violet paused in the doorway to Sherlock’s room, pushed the door open a little. It creaked.

“You may enter, Violet.” Sherlock’s weary, raspy voice surprised her. “I am not having a nightmare.” He switched on the little light on the nightstand next to his bed. “I am ill.” He coughed, thickly, wetly.

“Jesus,” Violet said, going to sit next to him. Sherlock wasn’t lying on his back, but rather propped up on pillows, like he had been when he was still in hospital for the shooting. He shivered despite all the blankets he had piled on top of the nice green duvet he had. His face shone with sweat and fever. Violet could feel the heat radiating from him before she even put her cool hands on his forehead, then cheeks.

Gladstone had his head on Sherlock’s lap, his big brown doggy eyes looking up at his mistress plaintively. _Fix my friend,_ the Alsatian seem to be saying to her.

“How long have you been feeling like this?” Violet demanded, pushing his sweat-soaked curls off his brows.

He shook his head. “Felt out of sorts after the wedding. Thought I was just getting a boring summer cold exacerbated by too many cigs but,” he coughed again, a horrible croupy sounding cough. “I started feeling decidedly unwell during dinner. I dislike taking over-the-counter medications because they always leave me feeling foggy and un-rested. I thought the wine would make me drowsy enough to make me sleep and I would feel better in the morning. Unfortunately that was a profound miscalculation. As dinner had progressed, my body started to ache all over, pressure started building in my sinus cavities as well as my lungs. I deduce I probably have an acute case of bronchitis coupled with a sinus infection, possible throat infection as well.” His hand reached up from under the covers to rub his throat, grimacing.

“You dumbass,” Violet shook her head, thinking, _That’s why he was so quiet during dinner. He wasn’t in his mind-palace. He felt like shit._ “You should have stayed home.”

“Can’t. I had far too much work to d-” he coughed again, that scary, deep, wet cough.

“Well, now you don’t have a choice,” Violet informed him. ”We’re going to the doctor tomorrow. After that, your ass is not moving from this bed,” she tapped the blankets with her pointer finger “Until you’re better.”

“Can’t John just come over an-” Sherlock started to whine.

Violet cut him off at the knees. “No. He’s your friend, not your personal physician. Plus he’s going to be busy enough since he’s going to have to take over for the serial killer case and I’m going to have to take lead on the Rucastle case. I know you told Alice that John was going to do the heavy lifting for the Rucastle case, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be mingling with law enforcement without you. Plus Alice won’t care, as long as she gets results.”

“That reminds me…” Sherlock’s shoulders shook as he coughed again. “Clear your calendar for the next few weeks or so… at least until Rucastle’s giant party at The Copper Beaches.”

“Why?” Violet was instantly wary.

“Tomorrow, Little Edward Rucastle’s tutor is going to give notice. Apparently she will have received better, higher paying employment elsewhere.”

Violet knew exactly where Sherlock was going with this. “Oh _come on_!”

“I thought,” he coughed miserably “You liked mentoring young children.”

“I like tutoring kids like Archie, who are bright and want to learn. I don’t like tutoring spoiled little brats like Edward Rucastle. Plus, he’s six. I wouldn’t be a tutor, I’d be a babysitter.”

“At his age, same difference,” Sherlock grumbled. “And he might be a nice boy.”

“Ha.”

“OK, you’re right. You’ve obviously done your research as well. The child’s reportedly a nightmare to care for. I apologize for the extreme inconvenience but Violet-” he paused to cough. Sighed heavily then continued, at a much slower pace than his usual breakneck prattle: “I need a way to get into Rucastle’s inner circle without raising his suspicions and you are the key. You will be hired not for your merit but because your C.V. will boldly list your address as 221B Baker Street. Once Rucastle figures out you’re the elusive ‘Miss Smith’, the ‘Hat-Man’s’ mysterious ‘Other Woman’-,” Sherlock used their unfortunate Internet nicknames sneeringly “-he’ll hire you out of curiosity rather than merit. Then you shall ask if you might invite your Darling Boyfriend over for tea one afternoon and I’ll pretend I’m interested in befriending Rucastle once I meet him. Then I can get inside his London home, his offices, his workshops and most importantly, The Copper Beaches. Then I will be able to prove Lady Elise was murdered.”

“Fine,” Violet gave in. “But you’re not doing shit until you see the doctor and get better.” 

“I don’t _want_ to go to the doctor,” he whined in full force now.

“If it is bronchitis, you’re not going to get over that without antibiotics,” Violet informed him. “And you’ll stay sicker longer.”

“God, your grammar is awful when you revert to your true American personality. And if it’s not caused by a bacterial infection but  by a virus, they’re not going to be able to prescribe  anything anyhow. So I will have left the flat for nothing.”

“And you are a whiny little brat when you’re sick.” Violet got off the bed. Screwed her face up, then said, “When your coughs become… productive… I won’t complain if you want to keep the sputum as samples so you can look at them underneath the microscope.”

“Really?”

“ _If_ you go to the doctor tomorrow. _Without_ bitching.”

Sherlock produced his first real smile in days, leaned back in his pillows. “Very well.” But then he closed his eyes in exhaustion, the coughing not letting him rest.

“I’ll be back,” Violet ran her hand over his damp curls then reached down to scratch Gladstone’s cropped ears. A few moments later, she returned with the Belstaff draped over her arm, with a glass of ice water in her hand, and a plastic jug of water in the other. “Figured this might make you feel better,” she said, awkwardly crooking her arm so Sherlock could see his coat. “But drink this first. I used to have chronic bronchitis when I was in college. Water loosens up the crud so you can cough it up and get out of your system.”

“Well, that just sounds ever so delightful, can’t wait,” Sherlock grumbled but he gratefully took the glass. The icy liquid felt wonderful on his aching throat.

“You’re the one who wants to view his own lung butter underneath a microscope,” Violet said angelically as he drained the glass. Violet set the jug on the nightstand, than lay the coat at the foot of the bed. She took the glass from Sherlock and filled it again. “One more.”

Sherlock took the proffered glass and drank, more slowly  this time, not wanting  to add a stomachache to his list of complaints. Then, after Violet took the glass from him again, he threw the covers off, after shooing Gladstone away from him. Shakily, he got out of bed then reached down for his Belstaff. He didn’t care that Violet deduced (or _profiled_ , as she would call it) that his big beautiful coat was essentially his security blanket. It was just as much  armor for him as her dyed hair and cosmetics were for her. A shield against the world.

Plus the coat was warm and despite the fever, he felt chilled to the bone. 

Violet politely looked away as he got out of bed since he was wearing only pants. When he had tried to go to bed earlier that night, he felt so blasted hot. The idea of pyjamas had been unendurable. Now, he felt so cold, he wouldn’t be surprised if his teeth started chattering.

Swathed in his Belstaff, he crawled back in, leaning back on the pillows again. Gladstone curled up next to him again. Violet meanwhile had gone into his little half-bath and come out with a dampened flannel. She sat next to him again, bathed his face and throat.

He closed his eyes, remembering the first time she had done this for him. After a truly horrible PTSD nightmare containing the Earl and Jim Moriarty…

He grabbed her wrist, gently, carefully.

His thumb was on her pulse. Normal.

No, he wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with any… _feelings_ … like the ones that had risen to the surface when he had attempted to teach her the tango at Lestrade and Molly’s wedding. Before Victor had interrupted… whatever  was about to happen between him and her.

Victor…

His throat felt tight, but not because of his illness.

He wanted Victor to _go away_ … but he wanted him to come back as well.

Stupid, useless, confusing, conflicting emotions... 

“Stay,” he murmured to Violet. “Please.”

She gently detached her wrist from his light grip and finished mopping his brow. But she did whisper, “OK.”

She did not get underneath the covers, little wonder. Violet’s body temperature was normal. She would have sweltered underneath all those blankets. She walked around to the other side of the bed and softly ordered Gladstone in German to get off the bed. Then she climbed on top of the bed, next to Sherlock, propped up on pillows like him.

Gladstone immediately leapt back up on the bed and curled up in a ball in between Sherlock and Violet’s feet.

“Bad dog,” Violet sighed with no trace of anger in her voice.

Sherlock reached over, switched the lamp off. Coughed. Whimpered a little from the pain in his chest caused by the coughing. Then, not caring how pathetic he might appear to her, curled up next to Violet, his head on her shoulder. He relaxed slightly when he felt her arms wrapping around him. “Hate not feeling well,” he muttered as way of an apology for acting so wretched.

“I know,” Violet started stroking his hair. “I hate you being sick too. Whiny brat,” but her voice was soft and affectionate.

Awkwardly he put his arm over her waist, but when she continued stroking his hair, he let himself relax completely. “I want Victor to leave me alone,” he confessed as he allowed her to hold him. “He is a distraction. He…” Sherlock coughed again, covering his mouth as he did so. Bronchitis wasn’t normally contagious but still, best to be on the safe side. However, he wearily admitted to himself he may have brought this on himself by too many sleepless nights and too many cigarettes.

Plus it would be terribly rude to cough all over her when she was attempting to comfort him.

Miserably, he finally finished his sentence. “He wasn’t always a very positive influence in my life and I had-” Cough. “Thought,” Cough. “I had.” Cough. “Closed that.” Cough. Cough. “Particular chapter of my.” Cough. Cough. Cough. “Life.”

This was maddening.

“I just want to focus on my work,” Sherlock managed to spit out before another spate of coughing started. Previously an irritation, it was now becoming quite painful. His chest burned.

“I know,” Violet crooned while continuing to pet Sherlock’s hair, making him feel like a housecat, which was not a terrible feeling. “But we all have That One Ex who’s not good for us and yet, we’d run right back to them if they whistled, don’t we?” She felt rather than saw Sherlock look up at her. “What? You thought I was a nun back when I lived in the States? I’ve got one too, an asshole who broke my heart but I kept running back to him, time and time again.”

“How did you stop running back to him?”

“He thinks I’m dead.”

“Oh. Right.”

He felt her resting her cheek against his head. “Try and get some sleep. We’ll get you to the doctor’s first thing in the morning and then, when you’re feeling better, we’ll tell each other our sad stories , OK?”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes.

But he didn’t sleep.

Neither did Violet.

Her mind was flooded with memories of her old life in New Mexico… none of them good.

**

 22 July 2015  
The Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew   
Wednesday morning  
9:09 AM

 John and Mary agreed they missed Molly Hooper Lestrade very much.

“When will she back?” Mary breathed into John’s ear.

“Not soon enough,” John hissed as Jamison Bodley, the pathologist filling in for Molly while she was on honeymoon waddled in front of him.

It wasn’t that Bodley was fat exactly. He definitely was not grossly obese at any rate. He was just decidedly… round. Round face, round eyes, round mouth and round belly. Even his eyeglasses were round. If Bodley did lose weight, John suspected the man would look like an oval instead of a circle.

The man also carried himself as if he too was a genius, the same caliber as Sherlock Holmes. John and Mary discovered very quickly Bodley indeed, was no genius. Rather he was a fool who used large words incorrectly in hopes of  sounding more intelligent than  he really was. Much like Mason and his stupid ill-fitting designer suits, Bodley’s attempts to impress fell quite short.

Also, Bodley was not nearly as nice as Molly. Not at all.

Yet, John and Mary had to tolerate the round little man with a chip on his shoulder peacocking in front of them. Both John and Mary had received the same text from Violet earlier that morning:

SH very ill  
Bad cough. Chest hurts.   
High fever. No sleep.  
En route to doctor.   
More details later – VS

Alex MacDonald had pulled some strings in order for John and Sherlock to view the body of the latest victim. With Sherlock currently indisposed, John asked Mary to join him, to act as his second opinion.

Bodley stopped to consult his clipboard. Both John and Mary exchanged exasperated glances, one of those silent conversations only married couples shared.

A clipboard. Not an iPad or any other sort of tablet. Both John and Mary knew St. Bart’s was in the process of joining the 21st Century by transitioning to a paperless filing system. Faster and more convenient.

Some doctors, like Bodley, stubbornly clung to their papers however. 

John took Mary’s hand, more to restrain himself as Bodley flipped through several pages of paper. “Ah, yes, this way,” he said, leading them again as if he really did know where he was going and what he was doing.

Finally, they arrived at the correct autopsy bay. The victim lay motionless on the steel slab, properly covered up with a white sheet. “Still trying to determinate her identity, of course. Waiting on the dental records.”

“Have the others been identified?” John asked as Bodley peeled the sheet away from the corpse.

“Oh my,” Mary covered her nose.

“It was far worse yesterday, believe me,” John’s stomach flopped over as he remembered the stink of rubbish and hot, decaying flesh.

“It’s not like the telly, where you can get DNA results back in less than twenty-four hours,” Bodley snapped. “Two’ve been identified. Still working on the third victim, and then there’s this one to controvert with.”

“Yes, how inconvenient for her to get murdered without her identification card,” John felt Sherlock Holmes possess him for a moment. He closed his eyes. “Sorry, I’m sorry. That was rude. I am a bit short on sleep. Now then,” John pulled his  little notebook and pen out. “May I please have the names of the victims that were identified?”

Bodley frowned. “Not sure if I should. You’re not really police, are you now?”

“We’re working for the police, dear,” Mary reminded him politely.

“Oh, so you’re part of ‘The Baker Street Irregulars’ now too? Thought you were just a nurse in the A&E?”

Mary bridled at the ‘just a nurse’ comment. She took massive pride in her work. It made her happy to save lives instead of taking them.

She opened her mouth but John had already jumped in “Oi, don’t talk that way to my wife. I was the one who was rude to you, not her. I apologized. Let’s move on. We’re on the same side. We want to find out who’s doing this so another girl doesn’t get torched.”

Mary fought down a smile. John had no idea just how sexy he was when he got assertive.

Bodley gave Mary a sickly grimace. Mary assumed that was supposed to be a smile. “Apologies, Mrs. Watson. No offense was meant.” 

Mary merely nodded her head, not trusting herself to be very polite either. Her nerves vibrated like a snare drum right now.

“Alana Grant. Waitress-slash-actress. Disappeared over a month ago. She was just identified last Monday. Martine Hallard, also waitress-slash-actress.”

“If they were young women, they probably have social media. Facebook, Twitter,” John jotted their names down in his notepad while privately dreading searching for two young ladies online who had two very common names.

Mary, on the same wavelength as John, said, “Hopefully Sergeant ‘Call Me Alex’ MacDonald will be able to forward us the women’s addresses or photographs of how they used to look before… um… before they died. That would help us search for their online lives. To see if maybe there’s something linking them together.”

“Right,” John wrote himself a reminder to call Alex. Sherlock always took the mickey out of him for writing things down. The last time John had patiently reminded Sherlock he did not have an eidetic memory like he did, Sherlock merely looked puzzled.

“But you have a Smartphone?” he had asked John. “Surely you can type your notes in there? Far more convenient, if you ask me.”  

John embraced technology about much as the next bloke. The idea of writing his blogs out longhand made him shudder. But at the same time, he understood why Bodley and the other fuddy-duddy doctors clung to their clipboards. There just was something about Writing Things Down. For John, taking notes while working a case helped him remember everything just a bit better. Also, even though he typed his blogs out on the computer, he had started keeping a journal again after living a few weeks with Sherlock. Now he had a small stack of little black leather-bound books with pages filled with his looping handwriting. Of all the adventures he had with Sherlock that he couldn’t publish online or in print. At least, not yet anyway.

Speaking of Sherlock… Violet’s text had worried him.

Other than the shooting and the hives… John could not remember Sherlock ever falling ill.

The chest pain was especially concerning. John had worried for a long time now whether or not Sherlock had really physically recovered not just from the shooting but from all the traumas his body had sustained since The Fall.

He pushed the memory of all the scars on Sherlock’s back, chest and abdomen out of his head.  He hadn’t had those scars before he confronted Moriarty on St. Bart’s rooftop.

But, before giving in to his desire to call Violet back, he made himself thoroughly examine the body, from the hairless scalp to the blackened toes. Took copious notes and photographs. Pitied the poor woman lying on the slab. Pitied her family and friends more. Her suffering was over. Theirs was just beginning.

“How did the others die?” John asked.

“Difficult to ascertain,” Bodley said pompously. “Since the bodies were set ablaze. We’re thinking the bodies are being burnt up in order to destroy any identifying features, birthmarks, fingerprints, hair, so on and so forth.” 

  1. John could hear Sherlock droning in his head. _The burning is ritualistic_.



“Sherlock believes that’s merely a happy accident, a side effect of the burning. He thinks that the burning is some sort of ritual? A pathological need to burn the bodies after the murder is complete?” John straightened up. “What do you think Dr. Bodley?”

“I think I’ve been quite generous in allowing you to view this body,” Bodley twitched the cloth back over the corpse. “The only reason I allowed you and Mrs. Watson in here is because you both have medical training. I’ve heard what your friend does to corpses. Beating them with riding crops like some sicko necromancer. That he bribes other pathologists to give him body parts to take home. Disgusting, if you ask me.”

“He was writing a research paper regarding rigor mortis when he was performing supervised experiments on bodies donated to research,” John coolly corrected the egg-shaped man. “And I didn’t ask you. About that. I asked you that if, in your medical opinion  it is possible that some sort of pathology is at play, some sort psychosis that drives our killer into burning the bodies once he’s through with them.” He put his hands behind his back and stared Bodley down.

Mary really wished her ‘monthly friend’ hadn’t shown up this week. Otherwise she would have dragged John to the nearest broom cupboard or loo and had him right then and there. Twice.

Bodley licked his lips. “I… never really thought about it.” He shrugged his rounded shoulders. “I suppose it’s possible, although the burning to destroy evidence is most plausible.” When John refused to stop staring at him, he crossed his pudgy arms and said, “Look, I’m not really an expert when it comes to anything out of the ordinary. I’m more comfortable with car crashes or drug overdoses. But, I’ve got a colleague, we go back from uni. Name’s Basil Evans. _Doctor_ Basil Evans. Psychiatrist. Specializes with fringe disorders. Fetishes, obsessive with the occult. That sort of thing.”

John jotted the name down as well as the telephone number. “Right, we’ll give him a ring. See what he thinks. Couldn’t hurt at any rate.” Especially with Sherlock down for the count he thought before saying to Bodley, “Thank you for your time. Mary, I’m going to step out and return Violet’s call then we can go.”

Mary had been waiting for this moment. She didn’t agree to go with John just to help him with the case.

They were halfway down the hall when Mary started patting her pockets. “Oh no,” she moaned. “Think I left my mobile back in autopsy,” she shook her head. “I took it out to take pictures but I must have set it down. I’ll be right back.”

“I can come with you,” John said.

“Oh, no, don’t be silly. It will only take a few minutes. Go ring Violet. I’ll meet you outside.”

 “Right, OK, see you in a few,” John smiled at Mary and walked away, heading towards the lift.

Mary all but sprinted back to the autopsy bay. She made it back just as Bodley was shutting the door. “I’m terribly sorry, I think I left my mobile in there, do you mind?”

“I do actually, but I suppose,” he said magnanimously, opening the door for her again.

Knowing he would follow her, Mary took her time searching for her mobile, even though it was safely in her handbag the entire time.   “Oh, Dr. Bodley,” Mary said as if the thought had just crossed her mind. In reality, she had been waiting for this opportunity all day. “You said you specialized in car crashes. I was wondering… there are so many rumors flying about, you see, but the NICU nurse that was killed?  Jennifer Boyle?”

“Oh yes, terrible business,” Bodley shook his head. “She was crossing the streets and a Range Rover ran a red light. Never slowed down, just kept on driving. Pulverized her, poor girl.”

“Have you heard if they caught the hit-and-run driver yet?”

“Not yet, but it’s a busy intersection. They’re probably going through the CCTV feeds now. Once they get the numbers plate, they’ll run that through the system, well, Bob’s your uncle.”

“Yes,” Mary said faintly while thinking _It shouldn’t take that long for CCTV to go through the feeds. They know the exact time and date when the accident happened. Unless someone is deliberately delaying the process…_

Mycroft. _Damn him._    

“Did you know her, dear? Jennifer?” Bodley was attempting to be friendly now.

It was creepy.

“Oh, no, but she was at Molly Hooper’s wedding. It’s just very sad. One minute she’s at a party, the next, she’s just… gone,” Mary gave Bodley her best po’faced look.

“Oh? I didn’t know Molly was friendly with Jennifer. I always liked Molly. She covered a few of my shifts last year when I was out with flu. Nice girl.”

“Well, I don’t know how well they knew each other. Maggie brought her as her plus-one to the wedding,” Mary said ‘Maggie’ as if she was well acquainted with her. In truth, she didn’t even know what either Maggie or Jennifer looked like

“Oh yes, Maggie. Up in Pediatrics. I see Molly and Maggie go out to lunch quite a bit,” Bodley nodded sagely.

_Thank you for being a nosy old gossip_ Mary thought while saying, “Yes, Maggie’s beside herself.” Her back to Bodley, she performed an old sleight-of-hand trick and announced, “Oh here it is!” She held up her mobile, making herself look relieved. “How did we survive before our mobiles? Anyway, I apologize for taking up your time. I really must go. John’s waiting.”

Mary bade him good morning and made her escape.

_Didn’t get a last name, but still… Maggie. Works in Peds. It’s a start… plus, the CCTV cameras… surely there’s a way to get at that footage…?_

Mary caught up to John outside St. Bart’s just as John rang off with Violet. “Triple threat of bronchitis, sinusitis and laryngitis. Plus the coughing fits aggravated some old injuries he had gotten-” _When you shot him…_ “-on an old case. But on the bright side, he doesn’t have strep throat, just a very sore throat,” John grinned impishly “Which means he can hardly talk.”

“Aw,” Mary took John’s hand. “Be nice. Poor Sherlock.”

“You mean poor Violet. She’s the one stuck caring for him.”

“Oh God, you’re right. Wait, what about Mrs. Hudson?” Mary asked as John hailed a black cab.

“On holiday with her sister. Went to Spain for a fortnight. Left just this past Monday.”

“Oh that’s right. Poor Violet,” Mary sighed as a cab pulled up to them. “We should stop and pick up some things for them. Broth, crackers, ginger ale, throat lozenges… and a case of wine for Violet, she’ll need it.”

“Probably some restraints for Sherlock too,” John said, opening the door for Mary. “He’s going to try and get out of bed to Work the Case at every opportunity that presents itself.”

“Right. Broth, crackers, ginger ale, throat lozenges, case of wine, handcuffs.”

“Yes, that should about cover things,” John put his arm over Mary’s shoulders as he told the cabbie to take them to 221B Baker Street.

Moments like this was when John could almost forget the woman he held nearly killed his best friend.  And it was moments like this that Mary knew she would do anything for the man that held her… even if it meant going behind his back to give him his dearest wish. 

To give him back his daughter.


	9. Mother Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s time for you to face a bitter truth too, John. Just as bitter as the one Sherlock had to face when he realized Victor never cared for him, was ashamed of him. You can’t deny it any longer, John. Mary does not love you. What you two have is not love.”
> 
> “How would you know?” John unknowingly repeated Sherlock’s words back to Mycroft..."
> 
> In other news, Sherlock's sick as a dog, Violet's being run ragged, Mary's lying her ass off and John is getting ready to punch Mycroft in the face. 
> 
> Enjoy! :^)

Chapter Nine: Mother Mary

Once John and Mary arrived at 221B Baker Street, they regretted making fun of Sherlock earlier. Restraints weren’t going to be necessary to keep Sherlock in bed.

“He’s exhausted, but he keeps bloody coughing,” Violet Smith griped as she let them in the flat. “But they want him to cough because they want to get that crap in his lungs out. But it hurts him because apparently he had gotten into some sort of altercation while he was on his Great Hiatus and gotten his ribs bruised for his troubles.”

John instantly felt guilty. So, it wasn’t the gunshot wound that was playing up, but an old injury he had sustained after The Fall. _Another_ injury John hadn’t known about. _How is he still walking around?_ John wondered, remembering his own limp after he had been shot… in the shoulder.

He pushed the memory out of his head from last March, how Sherlock had promised to tell him about what happened to him during those two awful years after the Fall and before the Rise:

_In my own time, John. Not tonight, but in my own way, my own time, yes, I will tell you everything… I promise…_

_When? Sherlock, when are you going to tell me? You couldn’t even tell me about Victor Bloody Trevor; when in the hell are you going to tell me what happened to you while you were “dead?”_

Apparently, now was not the time. Obviously. 

“Anyway,” Violet took off her (fake) spectacles and rubbed her tired eyes. “Because he can’t sleep, I can’t either.  And I can’t afford to fall ill either, because apparently I’m to go undercover.”

“What?” John and Mary said at exactly the  same time.

Violet quickly explained Sherlock’s brilliant scheme to get her into Rucastle’s home.

“Is that safe?” John immediately asked. “You remember what Alice said. He’s not completely stupid. He’s… what did she say…”

“Cunning,” Mary reminded him, shifting the plastic Tesco bags in her hands.

“Yeah, that.”

Violet shrugged. “I think I’m safe enough caring for the six-year-old son of an obese fashion designer. If he tries anything, I’m fairly confident I can outrun him.”

“Which one, the little boy or the fat man?” John quipped.

“Both,” Violet put her spectacles back on. “Go see him, John. It’ll brighten his day. He’s really unhappy and restless. I don’t even have the heart to tease him about being ill.” 

“Mary? Want to come with?”

“Oh, no. Not right now. Want to put these things away,” she held up the plastic sacks. “Then I’ll help Violet with tea. A cuppa will help with his sore throat.”

“OK, yeah, that’s a good idea. Helps keep him hydrated too,” John nodded approvingly. He headed towards Sherlock’s bedroom while the women retreated to the kitchen.

Once alone in the kitchen, the ladies dropped their sweet domestic façades. “Right, so I found out there might be CCTV footage of the accident, when Jenny got run down,” Mary said in a low voice as Violet put the cans of chicken broth and bottles of fizzy ginger ale away. “Also, her friend, the one who actually knows Molly Hooper, works in Peds. Figure I can talk to her a bit. Can arrange it to run into her in the caf, fiddle with my schedule a bit so we’re working the same time shift.”

“I might be able to pull the CCTV footage if you can get me the exact time and date,” Violet whispered. “Assuming it hasn’t been deleted. While Sherlock was in the exam room this morning, getting poked and prodded, I was able to get in touch with one of his Homeless Network contacts. He’ll be expecting Sherlock. I can’t go, not now. I figure John will want to stay to keep an eye on Sherlock and also to talk to me about the two cases. Tell John you need to go home, but make him to stay here tonight. Tell him some big fib. That I’m utterly overwhelmed and can’t possibly handle Sherlock on my own or whatever you think he’ll believe. You’ll be meeting Wiggins at ten o’clock tonight at the Red Lion in Mayfair. Are you familiar with him?”

“Oh, I know Wiggins,” Mary felt dread pooling in her gut. She hoped she could convince Wiggins to stay silent.  Wiggins _worshiped_ Sherlock.

“Then there shouldn’t be any problems then,” Violet gave Mary yet another chance to come clean. _Come on Mary, I can’t help you find Maisie if you keep fucking lying to me._

“No problem whatsoever,” Mary said confidently.

_God, she’s a bigger liar than I am,_ Violet scowled to herself as she switched the kettle on.

Meanwhile, as the women conspired, John stuck his head into Sherlock’s room. “Hey,” he rapped on the doorframe with his knuckles. “Want some company?”

Sherlock rolled his head over. “Hello John,” he rasped out. “Did you see the body?”

“Yeah and don’t talk if it hurts. Jesus, you sound awful.” John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock. “You look awful too.”

“Your bedside manner is abhorrent,” Sherlock croaked. “Tell me about the body.”

“In a minute. What’s this about Violet going under cover? Wait,” John started digging in his pockets. “ _Don’t talk_ if it hurts. Here,” he handed the Great Detective his little notebook.

But Sherlock shook his head. Then pointed to his Smartphone “I prefer to text,” he forced himself to whisper.  

John supposed texting would be faster. “OK. Violet already told us the plan. I want to know,” he handed Sherlock his beloved Smartphone, “Why you think that’s a good idea? To me, seems a bit risky, which, in Violet’s situation, not good.”

Sherlock’s thumbs flew over the keypad then he held the mobile up to John to see:

Because she’s been undercover  
For nearly seven years now.  
Who better for the job? – SH

“You don’t have to sign your texts. I’m right here.”

“Force of habit,” Sherlock whispered, deleting his text.  

“Sherlock,” John strove for a balance between stern and sympathetic. The man, obviously, was horribly ill. Seeing Sherlock sapped of his usual frenetic energy, not to mention robbed of his rich, resonant voice, reminded John too much of those dark months after the First Shooting.

However, he was still _Sherlock_.

Who knew what mad scheme that massive intellect of his was devising?

“Sherlock, this involves the Earl of Winchester,” John hated himself for reminding Sherlock of that fact. “He’s seen Violet as herself, he’s seen her as,” automatically he looked over his shoulder, checking for Mary “ _Agent Hunter_. Surely, he’s put two and two together by this point, after Jack Woodley, err, Met his Maker. He’s got to realize Violet Smith is Agent Hunter.”

“Oh,” Sherlock rasped. “I’m counting on it.”

“Sherlock Holmes, if you are deliberating putting that woman’s life at risk to draw the Earl out, you are no better than Mycroft using you as bait to tempt Jim Moriarty!”

A flicker of Sherlock’s usual annoyance crossed his chalk-white face. “I assure you, I _am_ not my brot-” he started coughing violently. He reached for a tissue, spat, opened it and examined its contents with a disappointed frown. “No blood, that’s good for my health but boring for my research. Already have enough yellow samples,” he murmured, dropping the used tissue into the small bin Violet had put next to his bed.

John decided he didn’t want to know what Sherlock was talking about.

As Sherlock reached for the hand sanitizer and pumped a generous dollop into his hands, John tried again. “What makes you think he won’t harm Violet? If he cottons on that she’s helping you tie Lady Elise’s murder to him?”

“Because John,” Sherlock rubbed his hands together vigorously. Then he tented his sanitized fingers underneath his chin. “You didn’t do your research, ob-“ he suddenly turned his head away from John and coughed into the crook of his elbow. “Obviously,” he finished wearily. 

“Text,” John said. “Save your voice.”

Sherlock reached for his mobile again and tapped out:

Because he’s going on holiday.  
Thailand.  
Isn’t that nice? – SH

John’s lips thinned.

No. That wasn’t very nice at all.

The Earl’s preference for young boys was a very deep and very dirty secret.

A deeper and darker secret was that Sherlock had been one of the Earl’s first victims.

John ached to murder the monster. Then dig him up and kill him again.

Sherlock had deleted his text and was tapping out a new message for John:

I confirmed his travel plans  
with his PA. Convenient how I don’t  
sound like myself at the moment.  
He is leaving this Friday.  
He’ll be gone until Aug 31st.  
Rucastle’s big party is the 16th -  30th .  
We must solve the case  
before the 31st. – SH

“What if Rucastle contacts the Earl during the meantime?”

Sherlock, shaking his head, tapped out another text.

Violet deduces Rucastle is too  
proud to contact the Earl.  
My “celebrity” will dazzle Rucastle.  
He won’t realize what is really  
going on until it’s too late – SH

“Seriously, I’m right here, I know you’re writing the texts,” John grinned at Sherlock. The filthy look Sherlock gave him let John know the ailing detective’s sense of humor was nonexistent at the moment. John added soberly “What if one of the Earl’s spies tells him ‘Miss Smith’ and you are hanging around Rucastle? Or you and Rucastle get photographed together and the Earl just puts it together on his own? What we’re up to?”

Sherlock typed out:

He would still have to get from  
Thailand to England.  
Stop being a Nervous Nelly.

The mobile slipped from Sherlock’s hands, onto the duvet. “I will not allow either you or Violet to get in harm’s way,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the pillow. “I’m tired John. Tell me about the burned body later.”

John frowned. The brief exchange they shared  had worn the detective completely out…

_But his guard was down… for once…_

Sherlock started coughing again. John rose and went to the small half-bath and filled up a glass with water. He came back out and held it out to Sherlock.

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock said, but there was no bite in his words for once. “I want to sleep.”

“I know you’re tired mate, but drink this. It helps.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Don’t want anything right now. Antibiotics they prescribed gave me a stomachache.”

“Take the next dose with food.”

Sherlock made a face. “Not hungry.”

“Don’t care,” John said in his firmest “Dr. Watson” voice. “Just for once do as I say, please? Last thing we all need is for you to wind up back in hospital with pneumonia. We all know your lungs aren’t as strong as they should be.”

Sherlock took the glass and choked down the water then set the glass down on the nightstand. He winced as he tried to get comfortable.

John leaned down to help adjust the pillows. “Violet said the doctor mentioned the coughing fits aggravated an old injury? One from after the Fall?”

Too tired to maintain his usual icy reserve, he mumbled, “When I was in California, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I got knocked about a bit. I escaped, naturally, but unfortunately my ribs were horribly bruised.” He paused to cough again, then continued in a whisper, “The American healthcare system is a farce, so I had to mend on my own the best I could while in hiding. It’s fine, John, I’m fine. Don’t want your pity…” his eyelids fluttered down. 

“Not giving you any pity,” John said as lightly as he could while a huge lump formed in his throat. “And it’s a good thing you’re not on your own anymore, isn’t it?”

Drifting off, Sherlock replied faintly. “I know… I remember. You’re my family now… all of you.”

John paused, then remembered another awful night, one not so long ago, when Sherlock was coming down from the speedballs forced upon him, how he had started hallucinating wildly, regressing back to his boyhood, reliving his childhood traumas. Recalling how Mycroft had abandoned him even back then. Had led him like a lamb to the slaughter.

John had held him still to calm him and had whispered fiercely in his ear: _We’re your family now. All of us. Me and Mary. Lestrade and Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Even Violet. OK?  We will always find you. We will always protect you. We will always believe in you. We’re the ones who love you, never doubt that._

He restrained himself from running his hand over Sherlock’s hair. Didn’t seem… appropriate, with his wife waiting for him in the lounge.

“Right,” John said softly as Gladstone padded into the room. As the Alsatian leapt onto the bed, curling up next to Sherlock, John switched off the light.

 “I’ll be right down the hall,” he said. “Text if you need anything.”

**

22 July 2015  
Mr. and Mrs. Fowlers’ residence  
Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire  
Wednesday afternoon  
2:55 PM

Victor supposed it could be worse. At least Patricia’s parents didn’t live in a backwaters village in the middle of nowhere. And they had a proper home with a garden for his daughter to play in. No cramped flats or compressed terrace houses for the Fowlers. And London was roughly only forty kilometers away, give or take…

… but it wasn’t _London_.

And even though he and Patricia had their own spacious bedroom and bath and their daughter even had her own room as well, there was no privacy. None at all.

It was a miracle Victor was alone at the moment. Despite the heat, Mr. Fowler had taken  himself off for a round of golf with old friends. Mrs. Fowler had left earlier to help organize a jumble sale at her church. Patricia was doing something or other with their daughter upstairs.

Victor seized the opportunity.

He placed his laptop on his father-in-law’s desk. Then he checked his watch and did some mental arithmetic to make sure he wasn’t calling too early. Then he closed the door to Mr. Fowler’s study. Scrolled through his contacts on his Smartphone, found who he wanted to talk to and pressed his thumb on the illuminated name.

A bored, female, American voice droned in his ear. “Fowler and Rutledge Management, how may I help you?”

The receptionist didn’t have the thick accents Victor had gotten used to while working with clients from Long Island or New Jersey, but she definitely had that nasally, machine-gun-fire fast speaking voice that solidly identified her as a ‘Noo Yawker’.   

“Yes, Alice Fowler, please. This is her brother-in-law, Victor Trevor,” Victor said pleasantly.

“One moment, please,” and then there was the annoying burble of bland Muzak.

A different woman answered, this woman with the flat cadence indicating a Midwestern upbringing. “Alice Fowler’s desk, Jessica speaking.”

Victor figured Jessica had to be some small-town hick who had come  to the city with stars in her eyes, but who’d been humbled by the harsh reality of needing to buy food and pay rent. Or by the even harsher reality that she simply wasn’t good enough to make her living as an actress.

“Yes,” Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. Getting through to Alice was no simple affair, not with every up-and-comer and ingénue within shouting distance of Broadway wanting her to represent them. “I am Victor Trevor, Alice’s brother-in-law. I am calling from England. May I speak to her please?”

“One moment, sir,” and then he was listening to Muzak again.  

Just as Victor was about to give up and ring off, the music mercifully stopped. “This better be important,” Alice didn’t even bother to say hello.

_Bitch,_ Victor thought sullenly. “Hello Alice, or should I rather say, good morning.”

“What do you want Victor? I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“Just wanted to touch base, to see if you had contacted my frien-”

“Yes, yes, I spoke to Sherlock Holmes,” she interrupted him. “I did as you suggested. He’s taking the case. Pandora’s box has been opened and I hope you’re happy.”

Victor made his voice sound comforting. “It will be good for everyone to put this behind us, Alice. Once and for all.”

“It was behind me,” Alice said testily, “When I left England eighteen years ago. Why exactly are you insisting I re-open old wounds?”

“Well… the boy, of course.”

“Oh, I don’t give a rat’s arse about that little bastard my father got from Trixie Holiday,” Alice snapped coldly. “That tweaker’s brat can be a ward of the state for all I care.”

“He is your brother.” Victor gritted his teeth. Another positive thing about moving back to England was there was now an ocean between him and this bitch. “And the state wouldn’t take him. There is no next of kin, unless your dear second cousin Heathcliff decides to intercede?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“The man you believe helped kill your mother?”

Still more silence. Victor pressed on, pacing back and forth in his father-in-law’s study.

“I told you about the rumors about him… his predilections for little boys. He’s six years old, Edward. Do you really just want to leave him to the likes of Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper?”

“No. Of course not,” Alice sighed. “And I know in the end Edward is my responsibility. This is just happening so fast. I never wanted children, ever. Most women at least get nine months to prepare. I may acquire a child in less time than that, assuming the legalities are worked out. I did give up my British citizenship, after all.”

“We’ll worry about that step when we get to it,” Victor assured her. “One thing at a time.”

“Why exactly are you so invested in this?” Alice demanded. “We’re not friends, you and I. You’ve never shown any interest in my past life before. What’s in this for you?”

This was going to be tricky. “Maybe I’m trying to remedy past mistakes,” he said lightly. “Maybe it’s time for us to get along for the sake of our spouses.”

“I don’t believe you. You’ve never taken a straight road when there was a crooked one available. What are you really up to, Victor?”

“Fine,” Victor went for broke, told his lies. “Maybe you don’t give a shit about the boy, but I do. I am a father. I see things differently than you do. I’d go after the boy myself, but I can’t. Patricia and I aren’t blood-related to the child like you are. He’s not safe with those men, Alice. You know that. If they did indeed murder your mother, imagine what they could do to a small boy?”

“Alright, stop, you’ve made your point,” Alice said. “It’s not as if I can tell Mr. Holmes to cease and desist anyway. From the way you made it sound, once he has his teeth sunk in, he doesn’t let go of cases too quickly.”

“No, he does not.”

“If this comes to pass, if my father is arrested and goes to prison, would you be willing to foster the boy in the case I am unable to assume custody and Trixie is indeed unfit? Since you’re such a _concerned_ father and all,” she purred.

_Doesn’t miss a trick_ , _this one_ Victor thought but didn’t worry about it. He had bigger plans ahead. “Of course we would take care of Edward in your absence. Leigh would be delighted. She would have someone around to play with.”

“Wonderful, I’ll ring my attorneys this afternoon. Create a draft so it will be ready to go should it become necessary to proceed. I must dash. I have work to do. A concept you are unfamiliar with, I’m sure.”

“I work, Alice.”

“Yes, but not enough to earn what you need to maintain the lifestyle you seem to think you’re entitled to,” Alice purred again. “Enjoy living with Patricia and Damian’s parents scot-free while you have the opportunity.”

“I say, Alice, you become more American every passing day. Overworked, foul-tempered and bad-mannered.” 

“I like America,” she said simply. “I like _being_ an American. I like their directness. And I like how you improved _my_ country by leaving it,” and with that parting shot, she rang off.

“Christ, what a cunt,” Victor said to the empty room.

But to be fair, he supposed she had to be… New York City would have eaten her alive if she had been sweet and yielding when she arrived in LaGuardia with nothing more than  a stolen credit card and the clothes on her back and in her suitcase.

“Victor!”

Victor closed his eyes, shook his head. “I’m in here, Pats,” he called out, struggling to conceal his irritation. It would be pointless to try to  hide from her anyway.

Victor sat down at his father-in-law’s desk, pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, and flipped open his laptop, his cover story.

He looked up as the door swung open and mustered a smile for his wife. His lovely, simpering, subservient wife… whom he didn’t love, not one little bit.

“What are you doing?” Patricia asked, her blonde brows wrinkled, her lips pursed.

“Working, dear,” Victor leaned back in his chair, appraising her.

He supposed she was still an attractive enough woman. She religiously colored her hair to hide the gray and treated herself to facials to keep her skin supple and smooth. She was always dressed neatly and fashionably. Even today, when her only plan was to spend the afternoon playing with her daughter, she wore a clean pink top and neatly ironed khakis capris. Heavy in the hips to be sure, but then she never did lose the weight after she had their daughter. Victor was not uncouth enough to mention it to her mostly because he honestly didn’t care.

He had no desire to sleep with her when she had been in her first flush of her youth or now in the heart of middle-age. It had been a miracle they had been able to conceive their daughter.

She had seemed content enough with their one child. But lately she had been hinting she would like to try again… he shuddered at the thought then berated himself for his selfishness.

She was a magnificent mum. So patient, so kind, so loving to their child… and their daughter was blossoming into a very nice, bright little girl under Patricia’s caring eye.

But Patricia was just so abysmally _stupid_. If it didn’t have to do with celebrity gossip, shopping, food, church or their daughter, she couldn’t keep up with the flow of conversations. Conversations about anything remotely interesting: politics, the economy, history, the arts, were  downright painful. She was also timid, desperately so. She hated travelling. It had been an uphill battle to convince her to move to America. And all the years they had lived in America, she never left the security of Manhattan, glomming onto her brother and sister-in-law’s friends, whom she all found very nice and quite lovely. Victor had found them snobby and suffocating, just as  he found all aspects of his life in New York City.

Fortunately, it had been a downhill battle to convince Patricia to move back to England, but he still felt suffocated.

_I miss you, Sherlock…   why do I stay with_ you _, you slow-witted_ cow _?_

Then his reason came running into the study, all blond curls and smiles. “Daddy!”

“Hello Princess,” Victor got up from the desk, knelt down for her and spread his arms. “Are you having a nice day with Mummy?”

“Oh yes,” the little girl chirped. She, at least, seemed to have more brains than her mother. She already knew her colors, her letters and could count to twenty. Sometimes Victor doubted Patricia could even accomplish _that_. “We colored and we played tea party and watched _Frozen_ and now we’re going to make a cake for Granny. Daddy, do you want to help?”

The last thing Victor wanted to do was stand around the kitchen, watching Patricia attempt to follow simple directions for a recipe she found on Pinterest and muck it up.

But this was also the first time he had seen his little girl in over four days.

“You bet your boots I do,” he said, tossing her in the air a little, to make her giggle. Then he tickled her tummy to make her laugh.

As Patricia trailed after them, gazing at them adoringly, Victor playfully tossed the little girl over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes, walking out of the study. “Shall we go to the swimming pool tomorrow, Leigh? Just you and me? Won’t that be nice?”

He knew he could get away with that because Patricia didn’t like swimming and also didn’t like the way she looked now in a bathing suit. Cruel, but he really wanted to spend some time alone with his daughter.

“Oh yes. And can we get ice cream too?”

“All the ice creams.”

“Can we have ice cream now?”

“Not before dinner, lovey.”

“Can we have ice cream for dinner?”

Victor laughed.

He hoped Sherlock would like his little girl.   

**

22 July 2015  
The Red Lion  
Mayfair, London  
Wednesday evening  
9:57 PM

Mary walked into the pub wearing a very un-Mary outfit. She had slicked her blonde hair back severely and wore heavy make-up. The skinny black jeans and black lace-up boots Mary wore hinted to her old “AGRA” days. The gray top she wore would have suited Violet Hunter more than Mrs. Watson, but Mary needed something a bit baggy and she certainly couldn’t wear a jumper in this un-abating summer heat.

She found Bill Wiggins belly-up to the ornately carved bar trying to chat up a pretty girl. Mary waited patiently for the girl to give the predictable pained smile, thank Wiggins for the drink and head back to her group of friends occupying one of the snugs in the back.

“Pity,” Mary said, taking the girl’s place at Wiggins’ side. “But better luck next time, right?”

Wiggins turned to her, his look of disappointment turned to confusion, then deep misgiving when he recognized her. “Mrs. Watson?” When she nodded, giving him a smile, he didn’t smile back “Err, Hello.” He looked around, squinting, “But where’s Shezza?”

“Oh, he couldn’t make it,” Mary demurred. Eyeing his glass of water, she asked, “Have you sworn off the booze too?”

Wiggins really did look better than when she’d last seen  him. He had gained a few much needed pounds. His hair was now cut and styled more flatteringly to his long lean face and he was also clean-shaven. His clothes were also clean, a bit rumpled to be sure, but at least they didn’t reek of methamphetamines fumes and urine. 

“Everything,” Wiggins beamed now, digging into his jeans pockets. “The booze, the cigs, the drugs, even fast food.” He produced a bronze coin and brandished it in front of Mary. “Six months, two weeks and three days. Even taking some night classes now. Computer sciences. But… Miss Smith said it was urgent Shezza meet me? He needed my help with something?”

“Let’s take a walk, dear,” Mary gave him one of her patented tranquil smiles. “I’ll explain.”

If Wiggins looked skeptical, it was to be expected. He had been the one Sherlock had sent to fetch Mary to bring her to the Empty Houses… that horrible night when John found out who and what she really was… the night when her dreams really started to die, one by one.

_You don’t find Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes finds_ you. 

_Damn Violet for choosing_ _Wiggins_ , Mary seethed as Wiggins said goodnight to the bar-man.

But to be fair, Violet obviously still didn’t know Mary had been the one who shot Sherlock. Mary had a feeling if Violet did find out; her reaction would be swift and possibly violent.

And for now, she needed to keep Violet as an _ally_.

Mary and Wiggins walked out the bar, chatting pleasantly about nothing. Well, Mary chattered pleasantly about nothing. Wiggins merely said “Uh-huh,” when a response was necessary. As soon as they could they ducked into the nearest alley.

“What’s going on?” Wiggins immediately demanded.

Mary opened her handbag, held up a plain white envelope, stuffed with money. “Miss Smith and I lied to you. I do apologize, but this isn’t a job for Sherlock. It’s a job for _me_.”

“What kind of job?”

“What kind of job do you think?” she dropped her soft “Mary Morstan” voice now. “You’re a part of the Homeless Network. I need information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Last January, I gave birth to a premature girl. John and I were told she died. Now I found out that might not be true.”

“Somebody took your baby? Shit, lady. Call the coppers, not the Homeless Network.”

“Honestly, how much of your brains were left after all the drugs?” Mary snapped. “You’re supposed to be _Shezza’s_ protégé. You know what kind of lives my husband and Sherlock Holmes lead.  Do you honestly believe The Met can help?”

“No,” Wiggins admitted but then hotly added, “But I don’t see what kind of help I can giv-”

“My daughter was born two months early on January 1st,” Mary cut across him. “We were told she died on the 3rd. _Somebody_ had to have seen something, she was a premature infant. You don’t just walk out of hospital carrying a two day old baby born two months early.”

“Yeah, yeah, OK. I get it, I get it. You need to find out if somebody saw whoever took your baby. A witness. But Jesus, shouldn’t you be asking Shezza to do this?”

“No.”

Wiggins waited for her to expound but when she didn’t, he said “This ain’t going to be cheap, Mrs. Watson. It’s not like I can just pop innit St. Bart’s and go “Oi, anybody see somebody stealing a baby?”    

Mary tossed him the envelope. “Double your normal rates,” she told him “Half now, the rest when you come up with the goods.”

Wiggins counted the notes. “OK… but, um, what do I tell Shezza?”

“Absolutely nothing. You stay away from Sherlock Holmes until you finish my job.”

“Lady, if Sherlock Holmes wants to find you, _he finds you_.”  

Mary reached behind her and pulled out her gun from out of the back of her skinny jeans. The baggy top had mostly concealed it, from the unobservant.

“ _Shit_ ,” Wiggins put his hands in the air. “Knew there was something dodgy about you. When Sherlock broke out of hospital to tell me to hunt _you_ down.”

Calmly, Mary said, “I don’t want John to know until I confirm that my daughter is alive or dead. I won’t kill you, Bill. I like you. But I might,” she pointed the gun at his midsection. “Paralyze you. Or render your dating life nonexistent,” she pointed the gun at his crotch.

Wiggins instinctively covered his privates with both hands then shot both hands back up in the air again. “You’re off your trolley, you are!”

“I am a desperate mother looking for her child,” Mary took a step closer to Wiggins. “I will hurt or kill anyone who gets in my way. And we’re not going to tell John about this. And we’re not going to tell Sherlock about this. Do you understand?”

Staring down the barrel of her gun, he nodded frantically.

“I don’t think you do. Let me clarify for you. I know where you live. I know where your mother and father live. I know where your weekly support meetings take place. I know who your sponsor is. I know which Apple store you work at and I know where you are taking your computer classes at. If you breathe a word of this to _anyone,_ I will find you and I will put a bullet somewhere in your body.”

“OK, OK _Christ_ ,” Wiggins licked his lips. “Just… put the fucking gun down. I won’t say nothing… but if Sherlock deduces it from me, I can’t help that.”

“I know,” Mary lowered the gun but did not take her finger off the trigger. “That is why you are going to stay away from him until you find out who witnessed the kidnapping of my daughter.” 

Wiggins stuffed the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans. “How do I contact you?”

“I wrote the telephone number to a burner mobile on one of the bank notes. Send a text when and where you want to meet and I’ll find you.” 

He didn’t need to know that the burner was owned by Violet.

She had cleverly hidden it in a box of tampons, banking on Sherlock’s discomfort regarding women’s monthly cycles.

“Anything else?”

“No. Just do your job and do it quickly. Don’t keep me waiting,” she warned him. She waved him off with her gun.

“How the fuck did John Watson wind up with someone like _you_?” was Wiggins’ parting shot before he darted around the corner.

_I’ve killed men for less,_ she thought dispassionately as she tucked the gun back into the waistband of her jeans, pulling her baggy top down so she was sure it was hidden again. 

_This… this is the last job,_ she thought as she walked out of the alley and around the corner, back to the pub. _Then John and I seriously need to  talk…_

_Sherlock has Violet now… once we get Maisie back, we need to leave. We’ll never be free from my past or Sherlock Holmes if we stay in London. We’ll never have a chance at a life, a real life together as long as everything we do revolves around 221B Baker Street…_

Mary had the entire night to herself. She had told John she had been called into work, a nurse fell ill and they were short-staffed. She played on John’s sympathies and friendship with Violet, whispering how drawn and pale Violet herself looked. Would be good of him to stay and help her with Sherlock.

And to be honest, that bit wasn’t a lie. Violet looked dreadful, as if she and sleep hadn’t been on speaking terms for quite some time.

John, of course, had smiled, caressed her cheek and said, _Well, if you really don’t mind and if you have to work, I reckon I might as well stay. Let Violet have a break…_

And now, Mary wanted a drink.

But before she could enter the pub, she heard a high-pitched scream.

Instinctively, she whirled around, her hand already reaching for her gun before she stopped herself. Reminded herself that even though it was fairly late at night, she was still In Public. So she ran instead, towards the screaming.

The screams came from a very posh-looking car, idling at the stoplights. A young woman was half-in, half-out of the vehicle, struggling to get whoever was trying to pull her back into the vehicle to let her go. Mary could see who held the woman, but she sprinted towards the woman while thinking: _Where are the bloody cops when you_ actually _need them?_

The woman, turning her head, saw Mary running towards her. She struggled even harder, crying out, “Help me! _Please!_ ” as the light turned green.

Abruptly, the woman was completely pushed  out of the car and to the pavement. The tyres squealed as the car peeled away.

Mary crouched down by the frightened woman, more girl than woman really. “Are you alright, dear?” Mary rubbed the girl’s back as she lay cowering on the pavement. As the girl started to weep uncontrollably, Mary helped her sit up. “Try to breathe, dear, it won’t do to hyperventilate.”

The girl, shivering in the blistering heat, let Mary help her to her  feet. “I dunno what happened,” she quavered. “I don’t know what I did _wrong_.”

“Nothing,” Mary said firmly. “You did nothing wrong. What happened exactly?”

Mary put her arm around the girl and led her back towards the bar. A few men who had been loitering in front of the door met them halfway there. Choruses of “What the hell?” and “Should we call 999?” echoed around them.

“No!” the girl shook her head violently. Her eyes turned into saucers. “No cops. I’m OK. It was… a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding!” one of the young men, a good-looking boy in his early twenties, looked utterly appalled. “The hell it was! We all saw it. You were trying to get out of the car.”

“Please,” she whispered to Mary. “It was a _job_. My parents can’t find out…”

“Ohhh…”  Mary breathed, looked at the girl, who couldn’t be more than nineteen. Twenty at most…. Maybe even only seventeen or eighteen once all the cosmetics were washed off.

“I’ll talk to her,” Mary used her best and gentlest “Mary Morstan” voice, even though she looked more like “AGRA” at the moment, with her heavily made-up eyes and her platinum hair slicked back. “It’s OK, boys, I’ve got her, could someone bring me a first aid kit? She’s got some scrapes on her hands. And, perhaps a drink? Whisky?”    

From the corner of her eye, Mary saw Wiggins watching her from the shadows. She didn’t have time to give him a warning look or anything else as she hustled the girl inside the pub.

_He best keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him,_ she thought viciously.

But the “Mother Mary” routine did the trick with the other pub-crawlers. The men nearly tripped over themselves, probably thinking of their own mums and sisters as one held open the pub door, another ordered both Mary and the girl whiskies and yet another procured a first aid kit.

After letting the girl take a fortifying swallow of whisky, Mary asked her, “What’s your name?” while dabbing her palms with antiseptic wipes.

The girl winced, tears standing out in her eyes, “Destiny,” she whispered.

Mary stopped cleaning the girl’s wounds and stared her down. “Your real name.”

“My parents-”

“Won’t know unless you choose to tell them. Trust me dear,” Mary resumed her ministrations. “I’m not a cop.”

The girl snuffled. Mary supposed she was pretty, when she didn’t have thick black rivers of mascara running down her cheeks. “Josie. Josie Tey.”

“You don’t,” Mary ran her eyes over the girl again. “Look like a ‘working girl.’”

She really didn’t. True, she wore a pile of make-up, but it seemed to be in an effort to look older, not to look sexy. She wore a pretty pink sundress and white sandals. Her shiny blonde hair hung well below her shoulders. She looked like a girl about to go on a date, not to meet a john.

“It’s not like that, necessarily… I’m not… well, I’m no prozzie, but I do work for an escort service,” she whispered, she hung her head. “It’s legit, no funny business. I’m just supposed to be arm-candy for old farts that have to go to posh events and will be photographed. They have to sign all these forms and waivers and they all clearly say No Sex. But, of course, everyone hears Escort Service and immediately thinks Brothel. My agent connected me to the service, actually. Told me it was great way to earn some extra money between gigs.”

“Agent?” Faint alarm bells rang in Mary’s head.

Josie snuffled, nodded as Mary wrapped cotton wool around her hands. “I dropped out of uni to get into acting and modeling. My parents freaked out. Told me I was wasting my life. If they knew I was an escort to make ends meet… but I couldn’t handle waitressing anymore.”

“Well,” Mary tried to get Josie back on track. “But you got an agent, that’s something.”

“Yeah, it’s something. He told me about Westaways. That’s the escort service. Very discreet. Very on the up-and-up or it was supposed to be,” she said darkly.

“Some men hear _No_ and interpret it as a challenge.”  

“That’s what was weird though,” Josie said as she wiggled her fingers in her freshly bound hands. Realizing her hands would still work, she reached for her drink. Took another swallow then said, “It wasn’t a man who picked me up. It was a woman. She said she was picking me up to bring me to my… my, uh, you know. My client. I thought that was weird, but whatever.” She clutched her drink glass. “There was no warning. One minute we’re sitting there, nice as can be and the next moment she just started to _hit me_ , slapping me around. Then I saw her reach into her pocket and take out those zip-tie things, well, I knew I had to get out of the car, whether it was moving or not. Thank God the car had stopped and she hadn’t locked the door…”

“Do you think you could describe her?” Mary asked.

The girl looked terrified again. “I _can’t_. I can’t go to the cops. My parents…”

“I’m not thinking about the cops,” Mary said, her mind putting the pieces in place…

The Met didn’t know who the third victim was, but the first two, Alana Grant and Martine Hallard, had also been waitresses-slash-actresses.

Miss Tey may have escaped a fate worse than she even realized.

But Miss Tey, panicked, started shaking her head again “No, no, no. It was dark in the car. I never did get a good look at her face. But she was old. Wore old lady perfume, like my gran.”

“Josie,” Mary said sternly. “People trust old ladies, don’t they? She could be the lure to get girls into the car. This old lady could be kidnapping girls for some very disgusting people. Human traffickers, or worse. These people could try this again. They could do this to another girl.”

But Josie continued to shake her head. “No… I just need to tell Stroper and she’ll put the client on the Black List so they won’t be allowed to do business with us anymore…” She made a move to slide out of the small booth she and Mary occupied.

“But there are other services, other girls,” Mary reached for Josie’s wrist. “Please, just listen, just for a moment. I’m not suggesting the police. I’m suggesting a private investigator.”

“I…” Josie looked at Mary blankly. “I can’t afford a PI.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Mary said firmly, squeezing her wrist, “But only if you go to a specific detective.”

“Who?” 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“What? The nutter who threw himself off of St. Bart’s a few years back?”

“He’s very discreet. He’s very good. He saved my life.”

Josie dithered. Then, hesitantly, whispered, “But I heard that he’s really mean, Mr. Holmes.”

“You’ll probably talk to his partner, Dr. Watson. He’s very nice.” Mary smiled. “The nicest man I know, I promise.”

“Well…” Josie folded her lips tightly together. “You’ll really pay for it?” she asked in a tiny voice. “I really don’t have a lot of money. And I won’t get paid for tonight.”

“Yes,” Mary gave her a warm smile, a genuine smile. “I will take care of everything.”

“The address is 221B Baker Street, right?”

“Right.”

“Should I say you sent me?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “I’m afraid you mustn’t mention me, dear. It’s a long story,” she cut Josie off as the girl opened her mouth.

“Um… OK. I’ll think about it,” Josie said.

“Can I, could I at least get your mobile number? Just so I can make sure you’re OK?” Mary wasn’t sure why she felt so invested in this young woman all of sudden…

… then remembered her own daughter was out there, somewhere. _Who was looking out for her? Was she being well cared for? Was someone protecting her?_

_Does she know how much I love her?_

Mary knew in her heart Josie Tey’s mother felt exact same fear and pain as Mary did right now.

“OK,” Josie finally relented. “But, hang on. I don’t even know your name?”

Mary smiled, a sad smile, a mother’s smile.

Then said the diminutive her own mother used to call her. Before everything fell apart.

“Anya.”

**

27 July 2015  
The Diogenes Club  
Monday  
11:59 AM

John loathed The Diogenes Club. Creepy old place, nobody speaking, the only sounds the rustling pages of books and newspapers. It was like a nursing home for old, mute men in suits.

Plus, John never received good news whenever he dropped by the club.

He was duly escorted into Mycroft’s private offices by Anthea. Both John and Anthea pretended not to know each other, as usual. Better that way, less awkward. John stared ahead while Anthea walked and texted.

Mycroft was already seated in his armchair, sipping tea when John walked in. “Close the door,” he ordered Anthea.

John figured Anthea must earn at least six figures in order to put up with Mycroft’s crap.

But she closed the door and John sat down in the very chair Sherlock had sat in less than a week ago. “Mycroft,” John said brusquely.

“Hello, John. Tea?”

“No thank you.”

“How is the wife?”

“Fine.”

“And how is my darling brother?”

“On the mend.”

“Well, now that we have the usual pleasantries out of the way, shall we get to business?”

“Yeah let’s get on with it,” John said. “No point in pretending we actually like each other.”

“John, I like you.”

John stayed silent.

“Right,” Mycroft sighed. “You sent me a text last week stating that it was of the utmost  importance that we meet in person. I am not my brother, John. I detest mysteries.”

“Victor Trevor.”

“Ah,” Mycroft set his cup neatly in the saucer. “So you’ve met him?”

“No. Violet has.”

“Ah, yes, dear _Miss Smith_. What does she think?”

“She doesn’t like him.”

“She has every reason not to like him. One tug on the loose string and the neat little tapestry we have woven, that Sherlock and Miss Smith are a happy yet highly unconventional couple, falls to bits. Her very survival hinges on whether or not Sherlock succumbs to Victor’s…” Mycroft wrinkled his face, “ _Charms_ once more.” 

“Who is this man, this Victor Trevor?”

“What has Sherlock told you?”

“Me? Nothing.”

_I’m not surprised,_ Mycroft sipped his tea again. _Why on earth would my brother tell the Light of his Life about his greatest heartache? How he Fell… the first time._

“What has he told Agent Hunter?”

“Uh, that he, Victor that is, was his… first.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What my brother knows about sex would fill the front of a postage stamp. Victor Trevor’s family is actually from Australia, but you would never know from speaking to Victor himself. Victor’s great-great grandfather struck it rich during the Victorian Gold Rush. Invested heavily in sheep and cattle ranches then once his fortune was secure, sent his family back to England to learn how to be gentlemen. Ironic, since Victor’s great-great- _great_ grandfather had been someone our government had sent to Australia as ah, well, as _a permanent guest,_ you might say?”

“Ah,” John said, recalling reading about Australia’s dark beginnings as a penal colony for the British Empire for his history classes. “So, Victor’s family has money.”

“Not as much as you think. They aren’t hurting by any stretch of the imagination, but they took a hit as we all did when The Great Recession began. Also, Victor suffers from Privileged Son Syndrome. As a young boy and as a young man, he has had everything handed to him on a golden platter. Indeed, when he sobered up, it was a shock to him that he was expected to actually earn a living. While our parents were quite unsatisfactory in so many ways, one of the things they did right John, was to move us off the estate and into a working-class suburb. Otherwise, neither Sherlock nor I would have acquired the work-ethic we both share. One of the few things I will freely confess I have in common with my idiot baby brother.”

This was true. When it came to _work_ , Mycroft and Sherlock were both machines.  

But… “Sorry, you said ‘when he sobered up?’”

Mycroft’s  beady eyes glistened, like a raven spotting its prey and going for the kill. “Oh yes John. Victor was the one who gave Sherlock his first hit of marijuana, his first line of cocaine, his first dose of morphine. So, in a way, you were right. Victor was his _first_.”

“I see,” John studied Mycroft intently. “And what did you do about it?”

_Since you stood by and did nothing while the Earl_ … John couldn’t even finish the thought.

“Everything,” Mycroft set his tea cup down. “I know you don’t believe me, John. But it’s true. Sherlock was convinced he was in love with Victor and vice-versa.”

John blinked. “Sorry. Just having trouble seeing Sherlock…”

“Being sentimental? What you are (?) having trouble observing is that Sherlock was a deeply sad and lonely eighteen year old boy away from home for the first time. Our mother had pulled Sherlock out of primary school and taught him herself, you see. He never went to secondary school, there was no point. Nobody could keep up with him. Even Mummy, who is a mathematical genius herself, had to admit his intelligence had surpassed hers.”

“He never learned how to make friends his own age,” John leaned back in his chair. “He was completely isolated.”

“Not out of malice,” Mycroft said quickly. “He wasn’t imprisoned or kept at home against his will.” 

John thought about Alice Fowler, her forlorn childhood after her mother had died. Trapped in the same house, the same rooms, day after day, the only friend she had made was chased away…

“Still, it had to be lonely.”

“John,” Mycroft said softly, the sneer missing from his voice for once. “He didn’t know the difference. It wasn’t until he was around students his own age, that  he realized what loneliness really was.”

John _observed_ very clearly what those first few days of uni had to be like for him. Remembered Sebastian Wilkes at the Bank of England laughing about how they all hated him at uni. Remembered that split-second flash of hurt that had appeared on Sherlock’s face before he murmured  he “merely observed.” 

“Because none of the other kids liked him, they hated him. He shot off his mouth, made his deductions without realizing he sounded like an utter cock and they hated him for it.” 

“The brilliant and the honest are always hated, John. But then he met Victor Trevor. He thought he had made a _friend_ ,” Mycroft spat the final word as if it was curse word. “Then he thought he was in _love_ ,” Mycroft said ‘love’ as if it was an absolutely disgusting curse word. “It was fine for a while, as it always is in the beginning. Two stupid teenagers thinking what they shared was _special_.” He shook his head. “Oh, it was _special_ whenSherlock ended up dropping out after his second year because he was too strung out to attend any of his classes. Strung out because of the drugs he was getting from _Victor_. And it was truly _special_ when he went home with Victor for Easter instead of spending the holiday with us, like he had in the past. They thought they had the house to themselves, which they did. What neither of them anticipated was that Victor’s father had forgotten his wallet. He had found the boys in a rather… compromising position.”

John felt his face redden. “Oh. That’s embarrassing.”

“Yes,” Mycroft gave John a tight little smile. “Quite embarrassing. Quite embarrassing that JP Trevor nearly beat his son to death just for a bit of snogging. Their clothes were still on, or so Sherlock said, but his testimony is suspect, seeing how JP gave my brother a concussion. Hit him across the head with a fire poker.”

“Oh my God!” John’s jaw dropped.

“I know,” Mycroft sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if that blow to the head didn’t cause some sort of permanent brain damage, even though the scans came back clean. He tore the boys apart, knocked Sherlock out and proceeded to beat Victor bloody. Broke his arm. The Trevors are,” Mycroft gave John that tight, hate-filled smile again, “A good _Christian_ family. Hate the sin, love the sinner, the Bible is the literal Word of God and all of that rubbish.”

John never had a problem with religion. He had been baptized into the C of E and tried to go to church with Mary as often as he could. He just had trouble believing in God once in a while.

“That’s not Christianity,” John said quietly, “To beat your child almost to death.”

“Good luck convincing the Trevors of that,” the sneer was back in Mycroft’s voice. “He disowned Victor. Told him the only way he’d be welcomed back into the loving bosom of his family, was to give up his sinful life and his,” Mycroft inhaled sharply through his nose, “’Worthless junkie fag of a boyfriend’ as they used to refer to my brother .” He reached for his tea cup. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cuppa, John?”

John wanted something stronger than tea at this point. “I’m fine, go on. What happened?”

“The inevitable,” Mycroft refilled his own cup. “They travelled through Europe. Pissed their youth away and then, Victor ran out of money. Suddenly, things with Sherlock weren’t so _special_ anymore. Especially when our parents put their foot down financially when they realized Victor was freeloading off of Sherlock and that most of the money was going towards drugs. So, bereft of his sugar-daddy, Victor crawled back to his family, begged for their forgiveness, got into rehab and got himself clean all the while my brother descended further down the spiral.”

Mycroft added the sugar and cream to his tea, stirred, wondered how much more to tell John Watson. Lifted his head, studied him. _Deduced him…_

_He would kill anyone who would harm Sherlock,_ Mycroft realized. _Even me… even his own wife. Truly, her pregnancy was the only thing that had kept John Watson from snapping her neck that night he learned who she really was and what she had done… that filthy murderous_ whore.

His urbane demeanor hid his dark and dangerous thoughts … _but I will find a way to kill you, my dear Mrs. Watson. You think you are safe? You think you can hide behind my brother’s long black coats and your husband’s good name? Think again…_

Mycroft decided to tell John the truth.

“Once my brother realized the bitter truth, that Victor was ashamed of him and their relationship, and would rather live a lie than  be with him, Sherlock deliberately overdosed.”

“What?”

“You heard me quite clearly, John Watson.”

“I… on purpose? Are you seriously telling me he overdosed on purpose?”

“John, why do you think I always expressed such concern regarding potential Danger Nights?” Mycroft looked disappointed at John’s lack of observation. “It would be one thing if he just wanted to get high to take the edge off, the same as you or I when we indulge in a drink before bedtime after a bad day. A Danger Night, well, it’s always precluded by some sort of trigger, isn’t it? Something traumatic, something earth-shatteringly awful, say like a Woman he might have actually fancied, a beautiful and cunning dominatrix, ending up dead on a slab?”

“And then showing up out of the blue, alive and well again,” John said.

Sometimes he wondered if Irene Adler _was_ alive somewhere, laughing at all of them…

“But yes, John, I am seriously telling you he overdosed on purpose, after he finally realized that Victor was going to go through with his marriage. Sherlock went to a dealer known for selling bad batches. He told me later, after he had recovered, he could tell  the drugs were bad by the unusual odor it made after he had cooked it. But he boiled it and injected it into his veins anyway. You see John,” Mycroft took a sip of tea, “Sherlock doesn’t disdain sentiment because he is naturally uncaring. He disdains it because he cares too much, which has always been to his disadvantage. He always had this stunning ability for selecting the absolutely wrong people to care about… until he met you, of course.”  

John clasped his hands between his knees. “Victor’s definitely a trigger,” he said, echoing Violet’s words.

“Victor’s definitely a trigger,” Mycroft echoed John. “Indeed. Keep Sherlock away from him.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to tell Sherlock who he can and can’t be friends with?”

_Oh John how blind you are._ Mycroft thought, _He would do_ anything _you asked him to do_.

“Somebody needs to,” Mycroft said blandly. “As I said, with the exception of you, Sherlock picks the absolutely wrong people to trust.”

“Molly and Greg Lestrade are trustworthy people,” John argued. “Especially Molly, she kept one of Sherlock’s greatest secrets for two years,” _And is keeping an even bigger secret of his as we speak,_ he thought, then quickly added, “And Violet helped save Sherlock’s life last spring. Twice.”

“And your wife put a bullet in my brother’s chest last year and yet, he professes to still _like_ her.” Mycroft took a dainty sip of his tea then said pleasantly, “Close your mouth John.”

John again snapped his mouth shut but then quickly asked, “How…did Sherlo-”

“No, Sherlock didn’t tell me. Magnussen did. He paid me a visit right before Christmas. He told me everything that really happened in his office when Sherlock was shot and ordered me to put a muzzle on Sherlock.”

“You knew what Sherlock was planning that night,” John said slowly.

“Of course.”

“Except the bit about Magnussen having a ‘mind palace’ instead of possessing actual physical copies of the incriminating information,” John said hotly, his angry voice echoing throughout the room. He inhaled deeply, told himself he could not punch Mycroft at The Diogenes Club. His temper somewhat back under control, he said: “That bit you didn’t know, no one knew about Magnussen’s goddamned mind palace. You…” John folded his lips together. “You bastard,” now his voice was ice. “You bloody used him again for your own political schemes. And it fucking backfired again, didn’t it?”

“But then Moriarty did us all the favor of returning, didn’t he?”

A horrible realization dawned on John. “Mycroft… did you create that panic on New Year’s Day… did you make the world believe Moriarty is alive, to save Sherlock from execution?”

“John, for once, I have been very honest with you. More honest with you than I am with most people, especially with my interfering adrenaline-addicted brother so listen closely,” Mycroft put the tea cup down again and leaned forward. “Moriarty is very alive and even more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. My brother cannot afford any distractions. Distractions like Victor Trevor. Or your charming wife.”

“Mary wouldn-”

“She would,” Mycroft cut across him. “She already has and will kill again if anything that could potentially blow her cover story.”

“What cover story?” John sounded bewildered.

“That she is nothing more than a nice, mild-mannered doctor’s wife. It’s time for you to face a bitter truth too, John. Just as bitter as the one Sherlock had to face when he realized Victor never cared for him, was ashamed of him. You can’t deny it any longer, John. Mary does not love you. What you two have is not love.”

“How would you know?” John unknowingly repeated Sherlock’s words back to Mycroft. 

That stunned Mycroft into a brief silence. “I hope your denial does not get you or my brother killed,” he finally said. “Believe it or not, I am fond of you both.”

“I don’t believe you,” John said shortly.

“You’re just her cover story, John. You are to her what Sherlock is to Violet. It’s not real.”

“We’re done,” John shot up out of his chair.

“No, we’re not, there is one last thing, a message I need you to give your wife.”

“Tell her yourself.”

“This will probably come better from you,” Mycroft smiled. “Tell her to drop her little side project. She will not succeed. It will only end badly for all involved.”

“What ‘side project’?” John demanded but when Mycroft only sipped his tea, he said, in irritation, “Well, I have a message for you too. Stop being a dick and unfreeze Violet’s bank accounts. She’s not going anywhere. She can’t, thanks to you.”

“She’s alive, thanks to me,” Mycroft said mildly. “She should pray I don’t change my mind.”

“She’s alive because she’s smart and she has Sherlock on her side.”

“Then she should pray Sherlock stays on her side and doesn’t scamper after Victor.”

John couldn’t take anymore. He left before he knocked Mycroft’s teeth in.


	10. Queen of Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My family, we are trendy people,” Rucastle said while Toller sauntered off to mix two martinis. “Trendy but good-hearted. ‘If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’” 
> 
> Violet meets her new boss. Meanwhile Mary starts kicking ass and taking names. Sherlock is an annoying dick, as usual. 
> 
> And "Carlo" gets an modern update... errrr... sort of...

Chapter Ten: Queen of Control

28 July 2015  
221B Baker street  
Tuesday morning  
11:17 AM

“You better have boxers underneath _that_.”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “What?”

Violet finished fastening the silver hoop to her ear lobe. “Really?”

Sherlock really was on the mend. He still had a dreadful cough and he still sounded more like Darth Vader than himself, but he felt well enough to leave his bed and make his way around the flat without feeling light-headed. Of course, this also meant he felt well enough to complain heartily and loudly about being bored and being left out of the cases.

When Violet came out of the bathroom, she had found him sitting in his chair with his computer… swaddled in his bed sheets with a towering stack of toast and a cooling cup of tea by his side. Gladstone sat like a Sphinx by his bare feet, tail waggling in excitement, knowing Sherlock would give him “people food.” 

“Of course, I have pants on,” Sherlock lied, tossing Gladstone a slice of toast. The dog caught it, chomped twice on it then swallowed.

“Don’t feed my dog people food, please.”

“It is dry toast, it won’t hurt him.”

“Yeah, but it teaches him to beg,” Violet adjusted her fake spectacles. “OK, lay it on me. How do I look?” She smoothed down her shirt then put her hands on her hips.

Sherlock observed her. Normally “Miss Smith” looked like a prissy schoolteacher. But she had gotten the call on Friday from a Mr. Toller that Jepthro Rucastle had reviewed her C.V. and was wondering if she could come to his studio for an interview next Tuesday? Of course, Miss Smith accepted with grace and gratitude.

Both Sherlock and Violet knew “Miss Smith’s” prim and proper attire would never do for the _haute couture_ fashion designer. When Sherlock felt well enough to stay awake longer than twenty minutes at a time, they scrolled through Rucastle’s website together.

“These are _clothes_?” Sherlock had screwed his face up in disdain.

“I don’t know what’s worse, walking around with uncomfortable shoes or with a wedgie,” Violet had commented, looking at a photograph of a rail-thin woman wearing nothing but a midriff jumper made with what looked like very itchy material (that had holes cut out in strategic places), high heels at least five inches high with sharply pointed toes and a black thong bottom that left nothing to the imagination.

“Both,” Sherlock had concluded. “Both would be simply awful.”

“I think I hate this guy.”

“I think I concur.”

After their research was complete (and after thoroughly mocking all the “fashions” on the site), Sherlock and Violet concluded ‘Miss Smith’s’ New Look should be Naughty Librarian.

So now she stood in front of the detective, her hair twisted up, but instead of her usual severe knot, she had arranged it in a soft bun on top of her head with tendrils framing her face. She also wore her usual dress shirt and skirt combination, but she eschewed her normal scarf, using a trendy necklace (that she used Mycroft’s credit card to buy) made from huge chunky beads of colored glass to hide the scar on her neck. She wore a cream-colored blouse, very Miss Smith. But the heather-gray skirt she wore was scandalously short. Her make-up wasn’t as austere as it normally was either. She used a softer brown and pink palette, making her hazel eyes look like melted caramel. The gloss and lip color she used made her lips look the same color of pink as roses after a spring rain.

With the turquoise heels she had bought to match the necklace plus a fresh manicure and pedicure and a touch-up to her hair color, adding some gold highlights to the chestnut locks (all also purchased with Mycroft’s credit card), Miss Smith actually looked… a tiny bit sexy.

“Adequate,” was Sherlock’s pronunciation. 

“Just what every woman wants to hear,” Violet rolled her eyes.

“Two things,” Sherlock reached behind the stack of toast. Gladstone, thinking he was about to get another treat, sat up eagerly, his tail thumping against the floor.

Sherlock produced a small black jewelry box then opened it, showing Violet a diamond ring.

Disappointed, Gladstone slumped back down to the floor. If a dog could sulk, he was.

“Is this real?” Violet took the box from Sherlock, examining the ring.

“What? The ring or the proposal?”

She gave him a withering look. “Please, I know better. Rucastle is going to have an eye for jewelry. He’s going to know the difference between a diamond and a rhinestone.”

“I assure you, it’s real. The ring, that is.”

“OK, but why?”

“To make you more desirable,” Sherlock drawled. “Rucastle is perpetually dissatisfied. He wants what he cannot have.”

“Ah,” Violet, understanding, slid the diamond ring on the appropriate finger. “He’ll see it as a game. He wants to be friends with the Famous Hat Detective, but he’ll want to steal his fiancée from him even more. The story will have him on every gossip site and on the cover of every gossip rag in this Godforsaken city.”

“And he’ll want me to witness the theft,” Sherlock coughed and grimaced. “This _bloody_ cough.”

“Just remember this the next time you get the urge to light up,” Violet said unsympathetically. “OK, then. You said two things…?”

Sherlock put his laptop down then clutched his bed sheet so he wouldn’t give Violet an unexpected show. He stood up, hovered over her. 

Then reached out and unbuttoned one of her shirt buttons.

“Hey!” she backed away, instinctively slapping her hand to her breastbone protectively, closing her gaping shirt shut.

He gave her a wicked look. “It worked for Victor,” he said, his voice almost his normal purr.

“Oh fuck you,” Violet sighed. But grudgingly, she left the top button undone. “It’s not as if I have that much on top anyway.”

“It’s the hint of the invitation, the tease,” Sherlock said, settling back into his chair. 

“OK, OK, Jesus, when did you become Mr. Sex Advice?” Violet collected her new valise, another purchase paid for with Mycroft’s credit card. “Alright, I have to go,” she checked her watch. She refused to part with the gold watch she had received from her brother for her thirtieth birthday. “If Gladstone needs to go out, please put some clothes on first.”

“Mmphf,” Sherlock snorted.

“There’s still some chicken soup and custard Mary brought over yesterday left in the fridge. There’s a carton of ice cream in the freezer too. Drink water and ginger ale if your throat starts hurting again. Take your medication, _all of them_. I don’t care if the antibiotics give you a stomachache. Take them with food first and you should be OK.”

“Anything else, Mummy?”

Violet gave him the foulest look possible. “Yeah. _Stay here_.”

“But of course.” Sherlock’s face was the picture of innocence.

“I’m not playing. Do not follow me.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“I will tell your mother on you if you do.”

“Oh for pity’s sake!” Sherlock exploded then coughed. “I know I am still ill and would only be a hindrance at this point. John’s coming by later with an update on the Burned Girls case. I will have plenty to do, plenty to keep my mind and time occupied.”

Violet paused then smirked. “You’re going to binge-watch Season Four of _Dexter_ , aren’t you?”

“Don’t judge me,” Sherlock muttered. “And go on, before you are late for your appointment. I expect a full report when you return. Don’t muck it up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Violet shook her head. Admired her new bauble then asked, “Do I even want to know why you just happened to have a diamond ring laying around?”

Thinking of Janine, Sherlock said, “Probably not.”

“Right,” Violet got into character and turned her British accent “on”. “And I mean it, Mr. Holmes, _stay here_. That is _not_ a request.” 

“As you wish, Miss Smith,” Sherlock steepled his fingers and smiled benignly at her.

Violet left the flat and stood on the curb to hail a cab, looking around, expecting Sherlock to be lurking into the shadows.

A black cab finally pulled up. “Where to, ma’am?” the cabbie asked.

“SoHo, please,” Violet said and gave the cabbie the address, her stomach twisting a bit.

She hadn’t been back to SoHo since Jim Moriarty murdered her partner in front of her eyes.

Unconsciously, she touched her neck, where Moriarty had pressed a knife into her flesh. 

** 

28 July 2015  
The Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew   
Tuesday  
12:01 PM

Mary felt the walls closing in on her.

Dinner last night had been a worrisome affair. Now John had been the distant, uncommunicative one, pushing his food around on his plate instead of eating. When Mary had finally asked what was wrong, John had said, “For this I need a drink.”

He had gotten up, gone to the kitchen and come back with two bottles of beer and two glasses. He poured the beer into the glasses and then handed one to Mary. Then he flatly told her Mycroft knew she had shot Sherlock.

Mary had felt the floor open up below her. _This is what Sherlock must have felt like when he plummeted to the pavement, the freefall,_ she had thought. 

She had asked John if Mycroft had made any threats towards her, towards them.

“No,” John had said, leaning back in his chair. “Surprisingly enough, he’s more concerned with Victor Trevor than he is with you, although I’m supposed to give you a message.”

“What?”

“Something about a side project and that you should stop,” John had gazed at Mary over his glass of beer. “Something I should know about, Mary?”

It had been on the tip of Mary’s tongue to tell him everything.

“He’s playing mind games with you John,” Mary had lied instead. “It’s Mycroft, dear. Divide and conquer. He’s angry and hurt that I… well, it’s only natural he wants me well away from Sherlock and God only knows exactly what Magnussen told him. So of course he’s going to plant doubt in your head, to drive you away from me. If you leave me, then I won’t have easy access to Sherlock, now will I?”

John had studied her intently. Mary, with growing dread, realized Mycroft had already planted the seeds of doubt into John’s mind. And the seeds had grown roots.

But he had only said, “Yeah, OK,” drank his beer then collected the dirty dinner plates, pausing to kiss her temple as he brought the dishes into the kitchen.

Mary then had known Sherlock was going to hear about this conversation John had with Mycroft. Violet possibly as well… and who knows how she would react to that news.  

Mary knew she had to hurry up and find Maisie or at least gather enough evidence to prove Maisie was still alive.

So she stood in St. Bart’s canteen, scanning the crowd until she spotted her quarry.   

“Welcome back, Mrs. Lestrade,” Mary said warmly.

Molly looked up, a genuine smile bursting across her face. “Mary!” she started to get up from the table to give Mary a hug, but her pregnancy hampered her movements.

“Oh for heaven’s sakes,” Mary laughed, setting her tray down. “Do sit down,” Mary bent down to hug Molly instead. “May I join you?” she asked, then looking at the brunette woman sitting across from Molly, said, “Or is three a crowd?”

“Don’t be silly, sit, please!” Molly said, the glow of the newly married still in her eyes. “But I thought you worked the night shifts? Are you working days now?”

“Oh, one of the girls came down with the flu, I switched shifts,” Mary lied easily enough.

“Mary, this is my friend Maggie Jenner. She works up in Peds.”

“Hello,” Maggie said, holding out her hand.

Just from that one word, that one friendly greeting, Mary recognized her voice. Indeed, it was the same Maggie from the wedding, the one who had counseled poor Jennifer Boyle to hold her tongue.

And as if to confirm it, Maggie’s face turned stark white when Molly said, “And Maggie, this is Mary Watson, my friend John’s wife.”

“Pleasure,” Maggie said faintly.

“Are you alright dear?” Mary asked innocently.

“Might be the touch of the flu,” Maggie said weakly.

“It is going around,” Mary crooned sympathetically. “Or it could just be gastritis from this ghastly food. I mean, honestly,” Mary stabbed a limp asparagus spear and held it up for the pathologist and nurse to see. “How do they expect us to take care of anybody when they serve us crap like this? I really hate it when I forget my lunch on the countertop.”

Everyone around the table enjoyed a chuckle at the tasteless food the cafeteria served then Mary masterfully turned the conversation back towards Molly, asking her about her honeymoon in Brighton. Maggie visibly relaxed. Lunch actually turned into an enjoyable meal as the women passed Molly’s mobile around, scrolling through her honeymoon pictures.

“Now that the wedding’s out of the way,” Maggie leaned back in her chair with her mug of tea, “We’ll need to plan the baby shower.”

“Oh,” Molly ran her hands over her belly, “You don’t have to, really.”

“Nonsense, it’ll be fun. Send me a list of who you want to invite. Mary, you’ll come, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Mary said enthusiastically. “And Violet and Mrs. Hudson would be dreadfully put out if they’re not on the guest list.”

“They were at my wedding, Maggie, but I don’t know if you met them. Violet is Sherlock’s girlfriend, she played the piano during the ceremony and for the first dance. Mrs. Hudson is the landlady of their flat. Well, she’s more like a second mum to them, to us all, really.”

“Was she the old lady in the purple dress doing the Electric Slide at your wedding?” Maggie asked, going a trifle pale again when Molly had said Sherlock’s name.

“Maggie, are you sure you’re OK? You don’t look well at all,” Molly furrowed her brow.

“Ah well, it’s just been, you know, a difficult week,” Maggie mumbled.

“I am so sorry,” Molly flushed. “I am such a selfish cow, how are you doing?” Molly reached over and gripped Maggie’s hand sympathetically.

“What happened?” Mary asked, again the beacon of innocence.

“I’m OK,” Maggie patted Molly’s hand and slid her own out of Mary’s grip. To Mary, she said, “I had a friend pass away last week. Very unexpected.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mary re-arranged her face into an expression of sympathy.

“Yes, it’s very sad, she was a good friend,” Maggie stood up, suddenly and obviously dying to get away. She checked her watch. “I’m sorry, I need to go. My break is almost over.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Molly said. “I promise I won’t bore you with honeymoon or baby talk anymore.”

“Bless you Molly, but your honeymoon and baby talk distracts me. Mary, good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Mary smiled and sipped at her tea.

Mary and Molly chatted a few minutes more. Mary gave Molly an update on Sherlock’s recent illness. “He’s nearly back in the land of the living now, but it really knocked the wind out of his sails. In another week or so, he should be back to his usual obnoxious self.”

“Oh good,” Molly said while thinking she needed to tell Greg they should postpone their much needed chat with Sherlock by at least one more week. As if on cue, the baby started kicking. Molly ran her hand over her belly and again struggled to her feet. “If I get any bigger, you will all be rolling me down the hallways like a ball.”

“Nonsense, you’re lovely,” Mary stood up as well and the women kissed each other on the cheeks. “You and Greg must come around for dinner soon. Tell me all your pregnancy cravings and I will cook them all.”  

Molly laughed and together they went to dispose of their rubbish and then Molly said good-bye and headed off in the direction towards the morgue, moving in that ungainly yet proud gait of a pregnant woman… what other people would disparagingly call a “waddle.”

Mary, on the other hand, who was not scheduled to work today, turned and headed towards the Pediatrics floor.

She didn’t have to go far. Maggie was actually waiting at one of the lifts. Mary stood beside her. “Hello again,” she said with a friendly smile.

“Hello,” Maggie nodded, tried to smile.

The lift doors opened. Two doctors and a nurse spilled out. Mary and Maggie got inside.

Mary let the lift rise two floors before hitting the Stop button. “I think you and I need to discuss Jennifer Boyle.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Maggie took a step back from Mary, her back slamming against the lift wall.

“Do not waste my time,” the assassin let her “Mary Mask” slip. “I heard you and Jennifer discussing _my daughter_ at Molly’s wedding.”

“Oh my God,” Maggie whispered “I swear, I don’t know… I tried to tell Jenny to keep her mouth shut. I warned her… that your husband and his partner have pissed off the wrong people.”

“And now, you’ve pissed me off. You should be more worried about _me_.”  

 Maggie took a hitching breath. “I’m a mother too,” she pleaded. “I’m a single mum. I have two boys at home. I’m all they have.”

Mary just stared at her, with those cold, dead eyes. Gave her that same heartless look she gave Sherlock right before she had pulled the trigger.  

“I thought she was _drunk_ , OK? I thought once she’d sober up, she’d let it go, but…. The night before she died, Jenny had called me. Told me she was going to go to 221B Baker Street after work and tell the Great Detective everything. I told her she was a fool and she was mad. I told her she didn’t have any proof. She said…” Maggie swallowed hard. “Somebody must have bugged her flat or tapped her telephone because, how could anyone else have  known about this? If you had overheard, who else could have…”

“What did Jennifer say?”

Maggie shook her head. “My boys…”

“My daughter was kidnapped, stolen from this very hospital,” Mary took another step towards Maggie. “What makes you think your silence can _protect_ them? My husband is John Watson, a war veteran, a respected physician and the assistant of quite possibly the greatest detective in the world and _that_ hadn’t been enough to keep his daughter safe.”

“Jenny said she could prove it.”

“How?”

“I dunno. I don’t!” Maggie cried out as Mary now was nose-to-nose with her in the small lift. “I still thought she was overreacting. That she just felt guilty a baby died on her watch. But when I found out that she had been run over, that she was pushed into traffic-”

“What?”

Maggie nodded, “That bit didn’t make it into the news. She was pushed.”

“How do you know?”

Maggie had tears standing out in her eyes. “Please, my boys…”

“How. Do. You. Know.”

“Because I had an email sent to me,” Maggie gasped, “Of the CCTV video. It shows plain as day, Jenny being pushed out in front of that Range Rover.”

“Was there any other message?”

Maggie nodded. “Yeah. Told me to keep my mouth shut or else I’d be next.”

“Do you still have the email?”

Maggie shook her head but said, “I do but the video won’t play again. I tried, to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind, but it wouldn’t go.”

“Do you have a laptop? Or a tablet?”

“I have a Kindle.”

“Is it here?”

“Um, yeah, but…”

“But it’s going to be unfortunately stolen tonight,” Mary said. “Leave it in your locker. Also, leave your password to your email as well. I also recommend,” Mary pushed the Stop button. The lift jerked then started moving upwards again. “You tell your supervisor you really don’t feel well and leave. Pack up your boys and get out of town. Immediately.”

The doors whooshed open. Maggie, ashen-faced and trembling like mad, exited in a hurry.

Her supervisor would definitely believe her when Maggie told her she had the flu.

As the doors shut, Mary folded her arms over her chest, hate boiling inside her.

There was no doubt in Mary’s mind now.  

Mycroft had her child abducted.

Out of revenge.

_I shot the wrong Holmes,_ she thought viciously. _Next time, I won’t miss._

_Stop my “side project”?_

_Over my dead body, Mycroft…_

_Or yours._

**

28 July 2015  
Persephone Studios  
SoHo, London  
Tuesday afternoon  
1:20 PM

There were many parts of London the city bragged about, encouraged tourists to come visit.

This wasn’t one of them.

Violet was well off the beaten track, far from the famous Berwick and Carnaby Streets, from the fun clothing and music stores and even from the risqué novelty shops. She found herself staring at her Smartphone then looking up at a decrepit brownstone building sandwiched between two more decrepit buildings.

_This can’t be it,_ she thought dismally, checking the address on her mobile, then the numbers on the building door again. The buildings didn’t even boast  the brightly colored façades most of the other SoHo businesses did. _This can’t be right…_

Then she squealed when a rat, bold as brass, popped out of the gutter. It scurried less than a foot away from her, close enough that Violet could clearly see its disgusting worm-like tail and beady black eyes.

“FUCK,” she yelped, backpedalling. Then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed, looking around.

There appeared to be no one around in the deserted street, except for the homeless man, hood of his filthy sweatshirt pulled over his head, propped up against one of the large industrial bins. Despite the heat, he was also wrapped up in a filthy orange blanket. He hadn’t moved when she had cried out.

Frowning, she took a step forward, towards the homeless man. But then she looked over her shoulder up at the building again. She turned away from the homeless man, gripped her valise and marched up to the front door, looking for a buzzer. When she didn’t find one, she knocked.

The door swung open, creaking on the hinges.  

_Well, this gets better and better,_ Violet thought, squaring her shoulders and cautiously opening the door wider.

Peering inside, the ground floor did not appear to be deserted but rather to be undergoing some rather intense remodeling. There was scaffolding, several kinds of tools and paint cans everywhere. There were several large pieces of furniture covered with plastic tarps. And there was a distinct smell of sawdust.

Violet lifted her fake glasses off just for a second and peeked inside the dim room then took a step inside. Then another as she set her glasses back on her nose.

Her new turquoise heels clicked on the filthy tiled floor. Obviously there was no point in scrubbing the floors if they were just going to get dirty again.

“Hello?” she called out, using her “Violet Smith” voice as she peeked around a scaffold. “Is anybody here?” 

She took another step and jumped when something crunched underneath her shoe. Lifting her foot, she saw the gooey remains of a cockroach.

The quick lunch she had stopped to eat prior to her meeting with Rucastle threatened to come back up. Blood and gore she had no problems with and the rat had surprised her more than frightened her… but _bugs_? Ugh.

“Miss Smith, I presume?”

Violet gasped and whirled around, her body automatically going into a fighting stance. But because she wore those ridiculous heels, she wobbled wildly and she had to steady herself by grabbing the scaffold.

She found herself looking at a tall man with watery-blue eyes and a receding hairline. What hair he had was graying. He wore an expensive dove-gray suit, tailored to his exact measurements in a way that would have made both Sherlock and Jim Moriarty drool in envy. His necktie and the handkerchief in his suit pocket were both a sunny yellow color.

“Please,” he said in a voice so oily it could have killed all marine life along England’s seashores. “Accept my apologies. I did not mean to startle you. Unfortunately we have not had our security and intercom systems installed yet. And,” he spread his arms out wide, “Good help is hard to find. I am,” he pressed his fingertips into his chest, “Arthur Toller, Mr. Rucastle’s PA. We spoke on the telephone last week, assuming you are Miss Smith?”

“Yes, of course,” Violet gave him a simpering smile and held out her hand. They shook hands, briefly. Violet refrained  from giving her usual hearty handshake. She and Sherlock had  agreed that “Violet Smith 2.0” needed to be a bit more deferential, at least for this case. Especially since Rucastle was a known narcissist. He would not tolerate the Violet Smith who coolly and efficiently ran the insurance agency. So Violet still kept her beautiful manners, but acted more like a lady-in-waiting rather than a queen.

She didn’t like it.  

But she followed Toller, nodding and smiling politely as he chitchatted about the history of this particular row of abandoned buildings, how they had once been textile factories.

_Sweatshops,_ Violet thought, suppressing a frown. _Child labor._

“But Mr. Rucastle plans on renovating them all. This will be the flagship office, of course, where his offices will be, as well as the clerical workers, once the space has been completed of course. Some of the buildings will to be reverted back to factories. Stimulate the economy. Provide good paying jobs, all of that. Quality work, honest work, no sweatshops, of course. Then there will a building he plans on turning into a boutique and the others he plans on renting out to any other potential businesses that could help revitalize this part of the neighborhood.”

“Sounds ambitious,” Violet made herself sound admiring as she got into the lift with Toller.

“Indeed,” Toller hit the button for the top floor and the lift groaned as it began to rise. “Mr. Rucastle is a very ambitious and energetic man.”

He certainly didn’t look energetic when Violet first laid eyes on him.

The penthouse office suites obviously had been the first portion of the building to be remodeled. The space was wide open. All the windows were brand new and sunlight streamed in. The floors were intricately tiled into a lovely mosaic of a pomegranate. There was a very modern desk, complete with the latest Mac computer. The chairs and sofas looked more like pieces of art than places to sit. There was a fully stocked bar that matched the rest of the furniture. Everything was silver and white with touches of red and indigo where it suited the primary resident.

Wearing a black kimono-style dressing gown, he sat on a very tiny red footstool. The cheeks of his massive backside hung well over the seat as he draped gauzy yellow fabric over a mannequin. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that the desk and the bar were merely for decoration. The man’s true heart and soul rested in the drafting table, tucked in the corner of the room, overflowing with renderings, swatches of cloth and colored pencils. And in the bolts of cloth propped up against the other corner of the room, next to a sewing table, complete with a state-of-the-art sewing machine…

… and in all the mannequins scattered throughout the space. Some wore strange, _avant garde_ gowns. Some others only had scarves or strange looking necklaces draped around their skinny, swan-like necks. The other mannequins were completely naked, white and plastic.

Jepthro Rucastle turned around on his stool, pins in his mouth when Toller announced Miss Smith. He frowned then said, moving his mouth around the pins, “Oh yes, that’s right.” He took the pins out of his mouth and stabbed them into the pin cushion he wore around his wrist like a corsage. Then he hefted his bulk off the foot stool with a groan, his back audibly popping.

He was just as tall as he was wide. Violet recalled the enormous portraits of Henry VIII she had seen  while taking a solitary tour through London’s many art museums. The similarities were uncanny. Red hair, little piggy eyes, huge enormous belly... _No wonder he preferred wearing a robe,_ Violet thought as Rucastle’s ham-sized hand engulfed hers. 

Remembering how Sherlock liked to prance through the apartment in just a dressing gown or a bed sheet when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, Violet devoutly hoped Rucastle had some sort of undergarment underneath those black silk robes.

Violet kept her eyes trained on Rucastle’s face when he sat down. The sofa creaked ominously underneath his heavy body. He stretched out his massive legs and crossed his ankles (as  best he could) as he held his hand up for her C.V. Toller slipped the paper into his meaty paw. He then served Rucastle and Violet tea.

_Of course_ , Violet smiled blandly. _Tea. Yay._

Rucastle waited for Toller to add three lumps of sugar to his cup. Then Toller hovered over her expectantly. When Violet merely looked blankly at him, he asked, “And how do you like your tea, Miss Smith?”

“Oh! Milk,” She said automatically then added “And sugar please, Because she had observed Rucastle adding sugar to his.

“Very good,” Toller bowed then prepared her tea.

“Shan Zha,” Rucastle smacked his lips after taking a long drink.

“Pardon?” Violet tilted her head in confusion.

While Toller gave her the steaming cup of tea, Rucastle said “Shan Zha, hawthorn berry. I believe in natural remedies whenever possible. The Chinese, the Greek and the American Native Americans all used hawthorn berries to assist in stomach digestion. But it can be quite tart. The sugar and milk helps with that.”

  
“Oh, good,” Violet looked at the contents of her cup. With the added milk, it looked like strawberry cream. She took a sip and was surprised at just how every bad it tasted.

As Violet choked down the sugary creamy concoction, Rucastle murmured, “Studied in America… then came home and worked for a Colonel Spence Munro for nearly five years…. How many kiddoes were you in charge of?”

“Two. A boy and a girl.” 

“Mmm… and why did you part ways?”

_Because he doesn’t exist,_ she thought but said instead, “He moved to Canada. Halifax, actually.”

“Ah, that’s right, I forgot,” Rucastle screwed up his face, holding her resume closer. “Toller,” he snapped his fingers.

Toller placed a ridiculous pair of pink spectacles into Rucastle’s hand. Violet was sure Elton John wouldn’t have even worn those glasses. And yet Rucastle slipped the reading glasses on then held the resume at a normal distance from his eyes.

“Then you dropped the tutoring to a part-time occupation because you were employed full-time at Carruthers Brokerage Firm… a personal assistant to one of the owners, a Robert Carruthers. Why did tutoring stop being a priority?”

“My job at the insurance agency was supposed to be a temporary one while I was waiting for placement at one of the schools here in London,” she tried to look humble. “But I kept getting promoted and I honestly enjoyed the work.”

“What did you do, other than what’s listed on your C.V.?”

Violet rattled off some of her other duties, leaving out the part about the money laundering.

“That sounds like a nice job. Why did you leave?”

“It wasn’t voluntary. My office was one of the businesses targeted by those terrorist attacks last March. The bombings, you see. My office was destroyed.”

“Carruthers…” Rucastle mused. “You know, I think I heard about this on the news. Your old boss was actually murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Violet felt her heart leap into her throat and had to swallow hard. Robert Carruthers, or rather Section Chief Robert Carson had been more than just her boss. He had been her lifeline.

Suddenly, the image of Carson lying lifeless on the morgue slab with a bullet hole  in his forehead flashed before her. She closed her eyes.

“It was a very sad business,” she said faintly.

But Rucastle wasn’t paying a lick of attention. He stared instead very intently at the C.V. Violet opened her eyes in time to see Rucastle mouth the words “Two Two One B Baker Street” as he read silently to himself.

Violet strategically moved her left hand on top of her right hand.

It trembled. She made a fist and stretched it out again. _Goddammit... not now…_

“Oh…” Rucastle looked at her, from head to toe, as if he just noticed her for the first time. “Well, well, well. You’ve been holding out on me,” he chuckled, pointing a chubby finger at her. “You _are_ That Miss Smith. The Other Woman. I had wondered about that when I read your…” he flapped her C.V. at her as if it was a fan and he was trying to cool her down. 

“I hope you don’t hold that against me,” Violet produced a depreciating laugh.

“Hold it against you? My dear. That is an incredible asset. You know the pitfalls of fame and celebrity first hand. You,” he pointed his fat finger at her again. “Know how to keep a secret.”

_You have no idea…_ “Discretion is critical in Mr. Holmes’ line of work, yes.”

“ _Mr. Holmes_ … listen to you. You are simply adorable,” Rucastle chuckled.

Violet produced an embarrassed laugh, “I’ve been called many things, but not adorable,” she then used her left hand to brush a curl off her forehead.

“Speaking of discretion!” Rucastle breathed, spotting the ring immediately. “My word. Is that a diamond ring I see or merely a ring-that-has-a-diamond?”

“The former,” Violet dipped her head down, smiling shyly. “We haven’t gone public yet because… well, surely you must know firsthand how vicious the paparazzi can be, or at least by proxy, because of some of the clients you design for.”

“Wonderful!” Rucastle boomed, “Just wonderful. Toller, she’s wonderful!”

Toller merely looked bored.

Violet wondered if he would ever get around to talking to her about his child.

Rucastle seemed to be in no hurry to discuss Violet’s actual job duties or to ask her more questions. “Yes, Miss Smith,” he folded his hands over his enormous belly. “I do know about the subspecies known as the paparazzi. They’ve been a nightmare ever since… well, you see, I’m not sure if you recall, it’s been years ago, but I was married before.”

“Oh?” Violet kept her face neutral.

“Yes,” his face now twisted into the very picture of misery. “She died, you see. Suicide.”

“Oh, that’s dreadful. I’m so sorry.”

“Suicide kills two people, Miss Smith. The press got it in their heads that I drove my first wife to kill herself. What was worse, my daughter believed them. Believed that I could have done that to her mother… well, it pains me to admit that because of the filth the paparazzi spread, I do not have a relationship with my daughter. She moved to America years ago… Philadelphia.”

“Ah,” Violet said while thinking, _And the Oscar goes to…_

_Alice lives in New York… did he lie to me about her location or does he really not know where Alice is now? Or care… hmm…_

“This is why  it is so critical to find someone who will not only instruct and entertain my son but will  keep him away from those parasites. And you… well, my dear… I have not seen one photograph that shows your face. Kudos.”

“Oh I’m just not very comfortable being the center of attention,” Violet ducked her head again, shy and innocent. “Mr. Holmes’ the real star, not me.”

“That’s a shame in some respects. You have a lovely face.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

“And your hair…. I must confess. I have a… _thing_ for gingers.”

“I’m not surprised,” Violet lifted her eyes to Rucastle’s thick carroty-orange hair.

“I bet you were really something when you were in your prime. A true beauty in your youth.”

“Thank you again,” Violet said dryly.

“Oh come now, don’t be insulted. We worship the young, Miss Smith. And youth is sadly, truly wasted on the young. Besides, if you had a choice between your slender, handsome detective and a fat old man like me,” he patted his massive belly without any shame. “You’d choose your _Mr. Holmes_ a thousand times over, don’t lie,” he said jovially, slapping his knees. “Toller! A drink, something stronger than tea. What’s your poison, Miss Smith?”

“Oh, well… I… it’s not yet five o’clock,” Violet said lamely.

“Don’t be silly. We’re celebrating. Your engagement,” he winked. “And your new job.”

“I… I have the job?” 

“Almost, just a few things to clarify, then you can either accept or decline, and if you accept we can begin the tedious process of haggling over salary.” He sighed.

“Alright,” Violet said cautiously.

“My family, we are trendy people,” Rucastle said while Toller sauntered off to mix two martinis. “Trendy but good-hearted. ‘If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’”**

“Uh…” Violet looked to the strange gowns with their asymmetric hemlines and strange cut-outs here and there in the bodices. One dress had spikes coming out of the shoulder pads. They looked positively lethal. “Well, your designs are so beautiful, I’d be honored.”

“Ha! Toller, did you hear _that_?” Rucastle crowed. For a horrifying minute, Violet was afraid he might hug her. “I need this girl. I just simply _need_ her. Mr. Holmes is a lucky man.”

“I’ll remind him of that fact,” Violet said sweetly. 

“You are proficient in languages?” When Violet nodded in the affirmative, Rucastle prattled on “We spend a lot of time in France, so if you could start rudimentary French lessons, I would be more inclined to increase your salary. Also, my wife, the boy’s mother, well,” he pursed his lips until Toller gave him his martini. “She is not well. She may ask for your assistance with a few day-to-day chores. Please do not take offense if she asks you to fetch a glass of water for her or to take out the rubbish.”

“I am sorry to hear of that as well,” Violet accepted the martini. She sipped at it, trying not to grimace. It tasted like paint thinner. “I’d be happy to help her.”

Rucastle studied her over his martini glass. “There is something about you, Miss Smith. You’re different from all the other girls we’ve interviewed.” He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving Violet’s. Used to being stared at by Sherlock when he was bored, Violet tranquilly stared back.

“And it’s not just the celebrity either,” Rucastle added. “There’s… something deep… something mysterious and a little sad… blue… like the sea… and yet…” he consumed his drink in one gulp, sucked all the olives off the little plastic sword that had impaled them, then was off his chair much more quickly than Violet thought he could move. “There’s a tension within you, an energy… something _electric_. Curious as to why your parents chose to call you _Violet_.”

“It’s an old family name,” Violet lied.

Her lie went right over his head. Rucastle was like a stampeding rhinoceros as he stomped back to his bolts of cloth and his mannequins. “They should have named you Azure,” he called back as he searched for something, throwing bits of cloth everywhere. “Or Skye…” He held up a necklace made from keys, then tossed it down on one of his drafting tables. “Or Cyan … Ah ha!” he called out. “Eureka!”

He marched back to where Violet was sitting, holding high in the air a strip of impossibly blue fabric, like a triumphant banner.

“With the success of Vera Wang and Michael Kors designing for big box stores in America, like Target and Kohls, I have decided to branch out as well. I’m in the process of negotiating a big contract with K-Mart at the moment. We’ve almost finalized the deal. We’re starting small. Accessories and jewelry first.”

 “Mm,” Violet didn’t have the heart to tell him K-Mart was near the bottom of the food chain when it came to shopping and fashion in America. 

“This is one of my prototypes,” He draped the fabric, surprisingly soft, around Violet’s throat. “What do you think?” he breathed in her ear as he tied it in an intricate knot.

He stepped away from her and waited for the praise. Like a little boy who brought a finger-painting home from nursery school and was waiting for Mummy to call him a little Picasso.

Violet lifted one of the tails of the scarf. The color of the scarf was blindingly bright. But the intricate stitching of silver and a less bright blue thread throughout the cloth was delicate and exquisite. The tassels of the scarf were individual strands of tiny glass beads of the same electric blue hue.

“It’s gorgeous,” Violet said, not lying for a change.

“It’s yours.”

“Oh, but I can’t-”

“You will. I insist. Besides, you said yourself you had no objections to wearing my designs.”

“Well, yes, I know, but this is such a luxurious gift, I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“Oh please, I wish you would. Unless,” he said lightly, settling on the sofa again. The sofa groaned again under his bulk, “Mr. Holmes would be offended if you are receiving gifts from someone other than him?”

“No. Of course not, that’s not… well. Thank you,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “What a lovely way to start a new job.”

“Now, the boring questions,” Rucastle sighed, sinking back into his seat. “When can you start and how much do you expect for a salary?”

“Well, I can start next Monday and as far as a salary go-” but Violet was interrupted by the lift doors opening. A little red-haired boy came running out, making a beeline for Rucastle. A very stringy, dour-faced woman followed him, carrying a pug puppy.

“Ah, perfect timing,” Rucastle maintained a bright and cheery voice for his son but the look he gave the skinny, unhappy woman was not a nice one.

She seemed impervious to his glare. “Please tell me that’s the new nanny,” the woman moaned. “You can’t expect me to run your houses, your offices, do your bookkeeping, mind your boy, take care of Mrs. Rucastle plus walk and feed this rat,” she held up the pug for Rucastle to see, “All at once by myself.”

“I don’t want a nanny, I’m too big for a nanny,” the boy whined loudly over the stringy woman’s complaints. “Why can’t I stay here? I can help.”

“Eddie, don’t be silly. You don’t want to be stuck indoors all day long. And this is Miss Smith. She is going to be your new _tutor_.” Rucastle shot the stringy woman another displeased look but said cheerfully to the boy: “Won’t that be nice?”

Edward Rucastle gave Violet one look and then like a dismissive little prince, ordered the stringy woman, “Give me my puppy.”

“Only if you hold him gently, Edward,” the woman snapped. “Little Carlo’s just a baby yet.”

“He’s my puppy, give him here,” Edward demanded. “Daddy, make her do as I say.”

Violet wondered if she would to go hell for instantly hating a child.

“Just bring the pup here, Mrs. Toller,” Rucastle said with an air of great weariness.

Violet then wondered if Mrs. Toller was Toller’s wife or mother.

As the woman walked past Violet to place the pug in Edward’s lap, Violet nearly gagged as she caught a strong whiff of the woman’s perfume. _Jesus woman, did you take a bath in_ White Diamonds _this morning? Liz Taylor herself wouldn’t have even worn so much perfume._

_How am I going to survive these weirdoes until the end of August?_ Violet moaned privately to herself, _Sherlock you fucking owe me…_

“Now hold him gently, Eddie, we talked about this,” Rucastle tenderly rearranged the yipping puppy in Edward’s arms so he didn’t have him in a stranglehold. “There, that’s better. Do you like dogs, Miss Smith?”

“Love then. I have an Alsatian myself. I might leave him at home however.” _He might see Little Carlo as a snack rather than a canine buddy._

“An Alsatian?” Entranced, Eddie immediately demanded “Daddy, I want an Alsatian, not a stupid pug. Alsatians are _cool_.”

“Eddie, we talked about this as well. When you get bigger, you can have a bigger dog. Right now you are small, so you will have a smaller dog.” Rucastle ruffled the boy’s hair, as if he was behaving beautifully and not at all like a spoiled little brat. “Now, don’t you want to say hello to Miss Smith? You’ll be spending lots of time with her this summer.”

The boy eyed Violet again, distrust in his dark brown eyes. “You may call me Violet if you like,” Violet smiled at the boy… and quietly noted how the boy did not smile back. In fact, the boy’s eyes looked quite… dead.

Expertly, she concealed her concern and smiled blandly at Edward.

“Why?” the boy said sullenly, leaning back against his father’s belly, making Rucastle look like a younger and beardless Father Christmas. “Why do I have to spend time with _people_? I want to spend time with you, Daddy. You promised.”

“Ah, son, we talked about this too. I’m going to be busy working the next few weeks and then we’re off to the Copper Beaches. Won’t that be nice? Miss Smith will be minding you while I’m working. She is also going to help you learn French so you can come with me the next time I go to Paris. Would you like that, to go to Paris with me?”

Edward looked back up at Violet with those lifeless eyes of his. But his next question seemed quite normal. “Can we go to the park?” 

“Of course.”

“And the zoo?”

“Yes.”

“Can I bring Little Carlo?”

“Yes, but only when it’s not too hot outside. Little dogs can get ill quite quickly in the heat.”

“Do I really have to learn French?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Violet smiled, “But it will be fun.”

“Fine,” the boy huffed, crossing his arms, nearly squashing the puppy. The pug yipped and struggled to get out of Edward’s arms.

_Small children should not have pets, period_. Violet thought angrily but again kept her face placid as she rose. “Eddie you are hugging that puppy to death. Not so tight, OK? He doesn’t like it.”

“Oh,” the boy loosened his arms “Right.” He slid off his father’s lap and handed him the puppy. “She’ll do, I guess,” he said like a long-suffering lord who just hired a scullery maid. “I’m going to play downstairs.”

“Mrs. Toller, go with him, I need to conclude my business with Miss Smith,” Rucastle waved Mrs. Toller away without even looking at her.

Violet noticed that Toller had made himself invisible, standing quietly behind the bar.

The rest of the meeting went by swiftly since it consisted of her hours and her salary, which was triple what normal nannies made. Once everything was finalized, Rucastle rose and shook her hand again. “Welcome to the family… Violet.”

“Thank you,” Violet felt a funny twinge in her gut when he said _family_.

“Go on!” Rucastle said brightly. “Finish your drink.” As Violet threw the vile martini down her throat, Rucastle said, “Tell your detective-fiancé I’m an enormous fan of his work. That blog his partner writes… I read it when I have designer’s block.”

“I’ll let them know,” Violet as her eyes watered. Her mouth and throat burned.

“Toller, show her out. We’ll have your uniforms delivered to you,” Rucastle sat down on the little red footstool again, “Oh, and one other thing Violet?”

“Yes? 

“Monday, wear the scarf.”

Violet touched the cloth around her neck. “Of course,” while thinking, _Uniforms?_

Toller led Violet down back the way they came. The downstairs was still deserted, except now Mrs. Toller hovered over Edward, who sat in the middle of the room. He held one of his shoes like a fly-swatter, his eyes roaming… searching… for what?

_That’s not safe_ , Violet frowned. _A kid sitting in the middle of a remodeling project. Especially since the kid took his shoes off… what the hell?_ She thought as she and Toller got closer. When they were near enough, she was about to crouch down and tell Edward she couldn’t wait to see him next week Monday when: _Whap!_

“Got ‘em,” the boy said softly, proudly. He smiled at Violet, showing her the sole of his shoe.

Violet looked at the sole, then down at the floor. Her gorge rose again.

Edward had just smashed a cockroach with his shoe.

Violet, queen of control, couldn’t even school her face into polite disgust. She was sure her horror was plain as the nose on her face. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared wide-eyed at Mrs. Toller.

The stringy old woman just shrugged. “He likes it. Keeps him quiet.” She stretched her rubbery lips into something Violet guessed was supposed to be a smile. “Welcome to the _family_.”

Between the roaches and Mrs. Toller’s awful perfume, Violet couldn’t wait to get out of that building. Violet mumbled her goodbyes and tried not to break into a run.

Once outside, she inhaled sharply and lifted her face up to the sunlight.

Then she walked briskly away from the building, towards the main roads to hail a cab.

When she was approximately a block away, she saw the same hooded homeless man, still wrapped up in that dirty orange blanket leaning against a different wall. This time there was a hat at his feet. Feeling the superstitious need for some good karma after her experience with Rucastle, Violet fished a few coins out of her valise and tossed them in the hat.

“Cheers, luv,” a guttural voice grumbled from underneath the blanket…

… followed by a thick, bronchial cough.

Violet had been two steps away from the homeless man when she heard that cough. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Then whirled around and stalked back to the man. Tugging her stupid short skirt down as she knelt, she lifted the blanket up then pushed the hood of the dirty jacket off the man’s head.

Sherlock’s incandescent eyes twinkled as he smirked mischievously at her.

“You should really be more mindful of your accent, my dear Miss Smith. I believe the Queen herself could have heard your colorful language when that rat scurried out of the drain.” 

“I’m going to kick your ass.” Violet Hunter informed him.

“But I’m feeling _better_ ,” Sherlock whined. “I’m _bored_. I cannot tolerate staying indoors for another second. And I finished Season Four of _Dexter_ already. I’m tired of you and John and Mary leaving me out of the cases. It’s bloody unfair you lot get to have all the fun.”

“Fun!” Violet spluttered “Are you kidding me? What part of any of this is _fun_?”

“All of it,” Sherlock sulked as Violet carefully stood up, always mindful of her short skirt.

She held her hand out to him. He huffed, but took her hand and let her help him up.

“Nice sweat suit.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock draped the ancient shock blanket over his arm then ran a hand down the dirty navy track suit. He added brightly “This is my Drug Den Outfit.”

“I’m sure that will be a part of Alexander McQueen’s 2015 Fall Collection, _let’s go_.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rucastle's original quote is: “My family, we are faddy people. Faddy but good-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’” and can be found here: 
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. The complete Sherlock Holmes (287). Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co..
> 
> Rucastle, Edward Rucastle, Colonel Spence Munro, Toller and Mrs. Toller are all ACD canon characters. I forgot to mention in an earlier chapter Alice Rucastle is also a canon character and she did marry a "Mr. Fowler."
> 
> Carlo the dog is canon... sort of... *wink*


	11. The Tall One and The Short One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you insist on making me rest,” Sherlock sneered at John, crossing over and plopping into “his” chair, “Could you at least make me a cup of tea?” 
> 
> “If you act like a brat,” John said placidly while Violet fetched “The Client’s Chair” so she could sit with the Baker Street Boys as they discussed the case, “Then I won’t share with you the details of my meeting with Dr. Evans...”
> 
> In other news, Sherlock is a brat. And brilliant. But mostly a brat.

Chapter Eleven: The Tall One and The Short One

When Sherlock and Violet returned to Baker Street after Violet’s interview, they found John waiting for them, pacing outside 221B’s door.

Both Sherlock and Violet inferred immediately John had a very guilty conscience.  His round, expressive face wore the exact same look as a little boy who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

Violet knew why _… he must have talked to Mycroft this week,_ she thought, steeling herself for the repercussions. She would either get a tongue-lashing or the silent treatment from The Great Detective. Part of her hoped he would start an argument with her. At least she could fight back, remind him that he even said Victor was a distraction… and John and Violet just needed more information to protect Sherlock, to keep Victor from distracting him.

She schooled her own face to remain neutral as her own guilty conscience gnawed at her.

So far, she still had found nothing on “Ford Holmes”. The mystery man niggled at her, like a mosquito bite she needed to scratch but couldn’t quite reach…

As Violet concentrated on keeping her face impassive, Sherlock asked, “John? Why are you waiting here? You have a key.”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” John said, “And just barge into the place like I still lived there. Besides, I thought,” now he looked stern instead of guilty, his eyebrows knit together and his lips turned down into a severe frown. “You were supposed to be in bed. _Resting_.”

“I’m _done_ resting,” Sherlock announced but then coughed. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance.

“Yeah, you sound really refreshed. Rejuvenated. Like you just got back from a nice holiday,” John deadpanned.

“I despise it when you act like a doctor, John.”

“I AM a doctor, Sherlock.”

“Gentlemen,” Violet Smith swiftly stood between the two men, her back to the street. “Shall we continue this inside, where it’s cooler?” In a whisper she added, “We have company, across the street. By the fire hydrant.”

The detective and the physician looked over Violet’s shoulder and sure enough, saw a paparazzo  taking picture after picture.

“Wonderful,” John groaned. “And you’re in your Drug Den Outfit.”

“Oh my God, you actually do name your outfits,” Violet groaned as she opened her valise to retrieve her keys.

“Actually, the Internet names his outfits,” John corrected her. “You have heard about The Purple Shirt of Sex, right?”

“Who _hasn’t_ heard of the Purple Shirt of Sex?” Violet grumbled. “I had a fan-girl try to rip it out of my hands when I picked up the dry-cleaning last week.”

As John and Violet bantered, Sherlock scowled at the paparazzo. “Where is Gladstone when you really need him?”

Gladstone was lying on his favorite piece of furniture: the sofa. He lifted his big brown head up, his black cropped ears twitching when the door squeaked open. But he relaxed again when he realized it was just His Mistress, The Tall One and The Short One.

“Hey Stone,” Violet Hunter said, scratching Gladstone’s ears.

“If you insist on making me _rest_ ,” Sherlock sneered at John, crossing over and plopping into “his” chair, “Could you at least make me a cup of tea?”

“If you act like a brat,” John said placidly while Violet fetched “The Client’s Chair” so she could sit with the Baker Street Boys as they discussed the case, “Then I won’t share with you the details of my meeting with Dr. Evans.”

Sherlock’s face contorted with anguish as he debated if he should take his annoyance out on John or if he should behave so he could hear more about The Burned Girls case. “John, could you be as so kind to make a cup of tea?” When John didn’t move and only lifted his fair eyebrows, Sherlock grumpily added, “Please?”

“Of course. Violet?”

She scrunched her nose up and put her hand to her stomach. “I’d rather have some ginger ale instead,” she said as she kicked those ridiculous heels off then pulled her skirt down a bit lower. She hadn’t shown this much leg since college. “Rucastle made me have a drink with him to celebrate my new job and my engagement. You think a man with that much money would have good vodka. Shit he gave me tasted like rubbing alcohol.”

John only stared at Violet, his mouth and eyes all perfectly round. “Err… engagement?”

Violet and Sherlock exchanged wicked glances then Violet lifted her left hand.

“John, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you, would you like to be my fake best man at my fake wedding?” Sherlock unzipped his track suit jacket and pushed it off. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and kicked off his tattered “Drug Den” trainers. “Now, about that tea, John…”

“Stop… you just asked me… that…” John blinked, trying to catch up, knowing he was on the outside of some joke. “Would I… what… I… hang on, is that the same ring you gave Janine?”

“Oh John, I’m so proud of you, you are finally learning how to observe. Well done.”

“You cheap bastard, giving me a recycled ring,” Violet said to Sherlock, but her voice was light and teasing. Then she smiled, deciding to put John out of his misery. “Jepthro Rucastle not only has narcissistic tendencies but also a huge sense of entitlement as well as being extremely greedy. He wants,” she held her left hand up again, “What isn’t his to take.”

“Ah,” John said. “You’re not just a nanny, you’re a challenge.”  

“According to Agent Hunter’s deductions-”

“Profile,” Violet corrected Sherlock.

He ignored her. “Rucastle will not only want to steal from me, but he wants me to witness the theft. It’s not enough to steal my,” he rolled his eyes as he spat out the word, “ _Girlfriend_. No, he wants to publically humiliate me while doing so as well as to capture all the headlines detailing how he saved _her_ from _me_. _Famous Designer Rescues Damsel from Demented Hat Detective_ or something like that… something that will show the world that he is Miss Smith’s personal savior.”  He tented his fingers together. “And I quite agree with Violet’s assessment. So, as poker players put it, I upped the ante. I made her even more inaccessible and more desirable.”

Violet waggled her left fingers. The light caught on the diamond, sparklingly brilliantly.

“Ah,” John put the pieces together. “This is your ‘in’ to Rucastle’s big party at The Copper Beaches. You think he’s going to try to  steal Violet from out underneath you in front of his celebrity friends.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock closed his eyes, coughed a little. “It’s now up to “Miss Smith” to cultivate his trust and to appeal to his ego. Make him _really_ want her.”

“Well,” John eyed Violet’s skirt, “that bit won’t be a problem if you keep wearing things like that.”

Violet threw John a sour look. “I’m going to change,” she said in a snit, tugging the short skirt down as she stalked up to “John’s room”.

Now John and Sherlock exchanged mischievous looks then deteriorated into giggles. Sherlock’s laughter was punctuated with coughs. “Ugh, John, don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Seriously, how are you feeling?”

“Bored,” Sherlock crossed his ankles over each other and laced his fingers over his rib cage. “I feel my brain rotting from all this inactivity.” He tilted his head back against his chair. “Please, Dr. Watson, tell me I am fit enough to fully return to Work.”

“Absolutely not,” John said sternly. “Give it a couple more days, Sherlock.”

This comment made Sherlock bolt from his chair, stamp towards to the sofa then stomp up and over the coffee table and flop dramatically onto the sofa, arms and legs akimbo. Gladstone barely had time to bolt from his favorite napping spot before Sherlock fell onto the sofa.

Nonplussed, John said, “Throwing a tantrum won’t get you your way either.”

Sherlock responded by curling up into a ball.

John shook his head and went to make tea.

When Violet re-entered the lounge, John was calmly sipping tea while Sherlock was still curled up in a ball on the sofa. Upon seeing Sherlock, she stopped dead in her tracks. Now wearing a simple white T-shirt and denim shorts (that definitely covered more than the ridiculous skirt did) she jerked her thumb at Sherlock, giving John a look clearly telegraphing what she was thinking: _What’s his problem?_  

“I told him he wasn’t healthy enough to go back to Work yet.”

Sherlock snatched up the Union Jack pillow and put it over his head.

“Hard to believe he’s turning forty in January,” Violet grinned.

“Forty months, maybe,” John’s lips twitched from suppressed laughter.

Sherlock shot up. “I am SO glad you two derive pleasure from my distress!”

“I liked you so much better when you had laryngitis,” Violet informed him sweetly.

Sherlock responded by throwing the Union Jack pillow at her face.

Frowning, Violet picked the pillow up and hit Sherlock over the head with it.

“Children,” John still struggled not to laugh. “Come on now, Sherlock, stop behaving like a dick. I made tea. I’ve got some interesting information from Dr. Evans regarding the ritual aspect of the Burned Girls case. What more do you want?”

“To _leave_ this ruddy flat,” Sherlock snarled, rubbing the back of his head, even though it hadn’t really hurt when Violet hit him with the pillow.

“You just _left_ this ruddy flat!” John reminded him.

“We could go visit Mycroft,” Violet’s voice again was syrupy sweet, “Or your mom and dad. I bet your mom would _love_ taking care of you while you’re under the weather.”

“Do you hate me?” Sherlock whined. “Honestly, do you really hate me?”

“John, you do have Mrs. Holmes’ number in your cell, don’t you?”

“Speed-dial, actually,” and John made a big show of pulling his mobile out of his pocket.

“It’s irrelevant if you hate me actually because I _loathe_ both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” John and Violet said in perfect unison.

Sherlock scowled but his curiosity about John’s meeting with Dr. Evans overrode his strong desire to stride off in high disdain to his bedroom. “Very well. I merely dislike the pair of you very much at the moment,” he grumbled as he got off the sofa. Gladstone spied his opportunity and reclaimed the sofa for his own as Sherlock walked over the coffee table again, sulked his way back to “his” chair and curled up again in a ball. Truth be told, his tantrum had sapped what little energy he had left after following Violet to Rucastle’s…

… but he’d be damned if he’d admit that fact to either John or Violet, especially while the pair of them wore quite smug expressions on their faces.

Violet pulled up The Client’s Chair, took the glass of fizzy drink from John and sat down. More as a precaution than personal preference, Violet wasn’t much of a drinker. It had been years since she had gotten properly smashed, but it wouldn’t do to allow her inhibitions to drop when she was in hiding. Still, it surprised her how much the martini had upset her stomach.

“You alright, Violet?” John asked, noticing Violet’s turned-down mouth.

“Yeah, that martini Rucastle gave me is just coming back to haunt me,” Violet sipped the fizzy drink. Flicking her eyes at Sherlock quickly, registering his tired face, she looked back at John and said, “So, Dr. Evans?”

“Right,” John said, also realizing Sherlock was fading away. He needed to summarize his findings, especially since he had something else he needed to speak to Sherlock about as well…

His conversation with Mycroft yesterday still sat in his gut like a hot, heavy stone.

“Yeah, so Dr. Eva-”

Sherlock wearily cut him off. “Dr. Basil Evans, esteemed psychiatrist who specializes with fringe disorders such as but not limited to fetishes, obsession with the occult, ritualistic behaviors. He worked in America for a few years helping deprogram people who have left cults or cult-like organizations and reintegrate them back into mainstream society. I read a few of his research papers. They weren’t entirely moronic, although there were some very obvious fallacies that anyone with a shred of common sense would hav-”

“He was actually a very nice man,” John cut in, feeling the need to defend the doctor whom he had spent most of the morning conversing with.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock sounded cranky. “And dull. What did he _observe_?”

“Well,” John knew exactly how to appease the grouchy detective. “He said you were absolutely right, that the burnings are not occult in origin, but definitely ritualistic.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened at that but he still said, “Of course he did. What else? No. Wait on that. Do we know yet how  the girls died, John?” Sherlock asked, looking a little more awake now. That big brain of his was obviously rebelling against his tired body. “It wasn’t the burning, that was post-mortem.”

“Still trying to determine that bit,” John admitted, “The cause of death.”

“Has Molly Hooper returned from her Sex Holiday with Grendalwald yet? I want that idiot Bodley as far away from these cases as possible.”

“Grendalwald?” Violet arched an eyebrow.

“You’re running out of “G” names, aren’t you?” John teased him.

“To borrow a phrase from your colorful vocabulary, John Hamish Watson, piss off.” Sherlock glowered at him from under his bushy eyebrows. “I don’t feel well, you shouldn’t pick on me.”

“Oh stop being a baby. Sit up and drink your tea. It’s probably room temperature by now anyway, the way you like it,” John said mildly. “Besides, I thought you believed you were well enough to go back to work?”

“But he’s not well enough to be picked on,” Violet jumped right on John’s bandwagon.

“Funny, how that works.”

“I know, right?”

“And I loathe you both again,” Sherlock groused but he sat up and reached for his tea cup. “John, kindly ask Mrs. Lestrade to re-evaluate Bodley’s shoddy work if it’s not too inconvenient for her. Ask her to find the discrepancies he obviously missed. Oh, if only I had been able examine the newest body in a proper lab myself!” he cried out in disappointment, as if he were  a small boy who missed out on opening presents on Christmas. “Very well, the cause of death is still undetermined. Why does Dr. Evans believe the burning is part of a ritual but may not necessarily be an occult one?”

“We had a long chat, Dr. Evans and I,” John said. “He was very interested in the case.”

“Is he a suspect?” Violet asked immediately.

“No, he has alibis for all the murders. He was in Majorca on holiday with the wife and kids during the first murder and he was in America during the last two murders on an extended business trip,” John took his little notebook out and flipped it open. Reading his notes, John said, “Dr. Evans reviewed the autopsies and the police files before he met with me this morning. During our meeting, he told me that how the bodies were burned does not fit with any known occult ritual he knows about. But he found it very interesting how the bodies were burned, that they were burned very slowly, just enough to destroy any distinguishing features.”

“Roast them slowly,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, holding the tea cup to his lips. “Like a chicken in a rotisserie oven or a pig at a Hawaiian luau. Crisp the skin.”

“I might go vegetarian after this case,” Violet grumbled.

“Dr. Evans felt the burning shows some pyromaniac tendencies-”

“Obviously,” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, as only he could.

John pursed his lips for a moment, but valiantly continued, “But Dr. Evans said you were right, the burnings are not a calculated attempt to hide the girls’ identities and the victims are not a sacrifice to any sort of a malevolent deity.”

“What is it then?” Violet asked, “Cannibalism?” When she found herself on the receiving end of irritated looks from both Sherlock and John, she said, “You guys were the ones who compared the girls to roast chicken and pig.”

“Actually, that was just Sherlock,” John reminded her. “No, Dr. Evans believes the burnings show trademarks of obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

Violet frowned in disagreement. In her old life, she had got her Masters in Psychology and Criminal Justice before joining the FBI. “No. That doesn’t fit the profile. People with OCD usually are not violent. If anything, their obsessive thoughts interfere with their own personal daily lives.”

“Because their obsessive thoughts compel them to behave _ritualistically_ ,” John pointed out.

“Yeah, like  washing their hands fifty times before making a sandwich or locking and unlocking a door multiple times before leaving the house. Our guy is trying to make some sort of statement, what he’s doing is vindictive; he’s angry at someone or something… our guy has huge rejection issues and he’s taking it out on his victims and showing us how powerful he is by displaying the bodies in public places. _Look what I can do to your innocents if you hurt me_. OCD doesn’t fit the profile of our killer.”

“True,” Sherlock lifted a long finger, “But obsessive-compulsive disorder does fit the profile of one of the accomplices if it is accompanied with other psychological disorders, including severe psychosis. Also, people with obsessive-compulsive disorder can fixate on thoughts of violence or hurting loved ones. May I remind you, my dear Agent Hunter, that the villain Simon Mitchell, the young man posing as a Mormon evangelical who was poisoning women once they let him into their homes, had obsessive-compulsive disorder. He had to have the same brand and color of shoe laces,” Sherlock tented his fingers together. “Our culprit fixates on roasting the body once the murder is complete.”

“How can you tell?” Violet asked rubbing her stomach, still feeling ill from the martini.

“Obvious. Each of the  three victims was  slowly burned, starting from her toes and roasting her all the way up to the top of her head. If you two would have truly studied the autopsy photographs, you both surely would have observed that.” 

John and Violet had spent hours studying the pictures of all three victims with a magnifying glass. They both gave Sherlock looks that could have curdled milk.

Sherlock ignored them, as usual. “I assume the culprit used a blowtorch. Crisped the bodies, like the top of a Crème Brulee.”

“I am never eating again,” Violet moaned, rubbing her upset stomach.

“Earlier,” John jumped in. “You said OCD fits one of the accomplices. There’s more than one?”

“Of course, it’s obvious there are accomplices. I believe whoever cooked the bodies-”

“Sherlock, seriously,” Violet moaned again. “I might barf!”

“Lucky you weren’t at the actual crime scene where the third body was found,” John grimaced, remembering sharply the gruesome stench of rubbish and dead flesh that had been warmed by the hot July sun.

He ended up throwing away his shirt after all. Mary had washed it twice and still was unable to get the hot smell of death out of it.

“Was merely in charge of clean-up,” Sherlock continued as if Violet and John had never spoken. “I believe this is a three-person-crime.”

“Three?” Violet asked.

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded. He held up his pointer finger again. “One person to procure the girl,” he held up a second finger. “One person to torture the girl prior to her death,’ and he held up a third finger, “And one person to dispose of the girl and then dispose of the body. Or, in this situation, allowed to _play_ with the body before disposal.”

“How did you deduce that?” John asked, more to   assuage Sherlock’s sour temper. 

Sherlock visibly brightened, always eager for a chance to show off. “The Met missed three sets of footprints in the dust around the dumpster. The dryness of this blistering hot summer has been a boon as it keeps the city grimier and dirtier than usual.” Sherlock produced his Smartphone and tossed it to John. “I took photographs for the inevitable and tedious lawsuit once we apprehend the villains. But I digress. One set of footprints were obviously of the trainers belonging to the cleaning woman who vomited when she discovered the body. She’s not a suspect. The second set belonged to a man wearing dress shoes. He did not walk around much, he watched. The third set belonged to another man wearing work boots, the one who did the heavy lifting. He’s the one who threw the body into the bin. Obviously they had been interrupted and needed to get rid of the body before being discovered. Otherwise Jane Doe would have been discovered propped up in front of one of the many wonderful theatres London has to offer.”

“So…” Violet started to bite her lip, but stopped herself. “You think there’s a ringleader, someone who actually gets off on the actual act of murder, but he has minions to get him his victims and then to get rid of the bodies afterwards.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock started to say but coughed instead. “Blast it,” he griped. “We don’t have a motive or cause of death yet, which is irritating to say the least. Even so, most murderers have only two objectives. Kill their victim and don’t get caught. Most psychopaths are impulsive, they do not have the wherewithal to plan abduction and murder without leaving a trace of how the victims were abducted and murdered. But the bodies are left in conspicuous places. A clever murderer, one who  _plans_ his crimes, would not personally handle the body after he is finished with it. No. He would have some sort of underling place the body. Let the minion risk leaving his DNA on the body. Any hair or fluid from the actual murderer would have been burned away. Logically, since the actual killer is not physically disposing of the bodies after the deed is done, that would dictate the murderer is not personally abducting the young women either.”

“So our killer is just a lazy fucker who outsources the kidnapping and dumping?” Violet asked skeptically.  

“Whoever the Ringleader is,” John jumped in now (he had been taking notes while Sherlock and Violet were brainstorming), “He is clever enough to manipulate someone with extreme OCD, someone on bordering on psychosis, to do his dirty work for him, getting rid of the bodies.”

“Assuming whoever is burning the bodies actually has OCD,” Violet insisted.

“The burning clearly indicates pyromania,” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Sergeant MacDonald is currently researching old arson cases for us. I deduce our Clean-Up Man probably has a previous record,” he tapped the tips of his fingers together, thinking. Then he opened his eyes and asked John, “Anything else interesting to report regarding your meeting with Dr. Evans?” 

“Actually, yeah. See, we got a bit sidetracked, Dr. Evans and I,” John said slowly, considering his words very carefully before speaking. “He started telling me about some of his work, particularly in America regarding cults. He spoke about how most of them () are started by very charismatic individuals who  prey on people who may have lost their way, who  are very susceptible to being controlled.  Assuming our Clean-Up Man is a pyromaniac with OCD and that whoever procures the girls lives for the thrill of the hunt, gets off on abduction and false imprisonment… could it be possible that this little group of three could be…?”

“Some sort of destructive cult?” Sherlock furrowed his brows then shook his head. “You’re going down the same erroneous road as DI Mason and the rest of the incompetent fools at The Met. Minus Sergeant MacDonald of course, she is a bit less stupid than the rest.”

“I’ll relay that to her,” John said dryly.

“Yeah, I’m sure she’ll be touched,” Violet said, her voice equally dry.

“The Burned Girls have nothing to do with religion,” Sherlock shook his head again, making sweeping gestures with his arms. “This is not satanic. They are not being sacrificed to any pagan gods.” 

“No,” Violet bit her lip again. Only this time she didn’t stop herself. “But the definition of a cult doesn’t always necessarily have religious connotations. It can define any social group with deviant beliefs and…” she paused. “And rituals.”

“I need more data,” Sherlock announced after a prolonged silence then muttered to himself, “’Data, data, data…I can’t make bricks from clay.’**” He rubbed his face, made a horse-like snort of annoyance.

“Do the locations of the dump sites have anything to do with this?” Violet asked. “The theatres in the West End? I doubt that’s where the actual murders take place. There are too many people around. Too many tourists, somebody would have noticed.”

“If not the tourists, then at least the CCTV,” John added with a nod. 

“Obviously, but why the bodies are being left there will remain unclear to me until I get more data. And I can’t get more data until I’m fully recovered from this blasted bronchitis,” Sherlock ruffled his hair in annoyance then let his arms droop down the sides of the chairs. “ _Bloody_ annoying illness. Completely inconvenient. Pah!” and he began a coughing fit. Then he  massaged his chest and flopped back into his chair . “This is irritating.”

“Have a bit of a sleep,” John suggested. “You’ll feel better,” he added while thinking, _So much for coming clean to Sherlock about talking to Mycroft._

“Later. You have something else you wish to discuss with me. You obviously have been suffering a guilty conscience since you missed a belt loop when you got dressed when you finished showering and shaving from your afternoon visit to the gym. You were distracted by your feelings of remorse while you dressed. Although, I must congratulate you for finally losing five of the seven pounds you packed on when you got married.”

“Thanks,” John said lamely. 

Sherlock looked up at Violet. “This is where you go away now.”

Violet arched her eyebrow. “Did your mother ever hit you as a child?”

“No. Not even once.”  
  
“That was her first mistake,” Violet got up from The Client’s Chair, fished her fake spectacles out of her pockets and called for Gladstone. “How long do you two need?”

“An hour will do,” Sherlock tented his fingers again. “And pick up some food while you’re out. I could do with an early dinner. Or late lunch, I suppose,” Sherlock checked his watch. 

“With what? My good looks?”

“Oh,” Sherlock fumbled in his own pockets for his wallet. “Right. Forgot. Mycroft is being difficult.” He pulled out a few crisp twenty pound notes and held them up for Violet.

“Any requests, Your Majesty?”

“Anything other than chicken broth and ice cream; my throat doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it did before. I think I can manage a proper meal now.”

“Wait,” John said with genuine puzzlement, “You are actually going to _eat_ something?”

“Might as well,” Sherlock grizzled. “Since I’m not allowed to actually Go to Work, I might as well allow my body get as bloated and lazy as my mind.”

“Oh stop, will you?” John shut his notebook with a snap. “You snuck out of here to follow Violet to SoHo and we just had a really good brainstorming session.”

“More like a brain-drizzling session…”

“John, do you want to eat with us, or do you and Mary have plans?” Violet asked lightly, mostly to stop Sherlock from wallowing in self-pity, but also to gain a little more information about _Mary_ and her _plans_.

She hadn’t heard from Mary in days.

This concerned her. Immensely.

Violet worried that  possibly she had bitten off far more than she could chew by agreeing to help Mary find Maisie… especially since she also felt compelled to find out more about this Ford Holmes on top of everything else…

_Maisie…_ the name was always a reality check.  

She wasn’t a sad little ghost anymore, haunting the Watsons. Her name made her real. Maisie was out there… separated from all the people who loved her the most…

Maisie’s father checked his watch. It was later than he thought. “Mary is working tonight.”

_Is she really?_  Violet thought but kept her face innocent, acutely aware Sherlock had started staring at her when she took his money... and was still staring at her, very _very_ intensely.

_Shitshitshitshitshit…._ She thought as she felt his eerie mercurial eyes on her. Deducing her…

_I thought we had an agreement it was pointless to lie to each other since you can deduce me and I can profile you…_

_Me and my big mouth_ , Violet thought as she turned away from those omnipotent eyes. _If he can figure out John’s got a guilty conscience from a missed belt loop, I need to get out of here…_

“Well, we’re not getting Indian food,” Violet said out loud, looking away from Sherlock as she put her glasses on. “I hate curry.” She pulled her hair out of its bun and tied it in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck instead. Reaching for a black ball cap, she pulled the brim down over her face. She grabbed the leash and called for Gladstone. She snapped the leash onto the dog’s collar and grabbed her handbag and mobile. “Just text me when you two are done,” she said before exiting. 

Once the door shut, Sherlock faced his best friend and lifted his eyebrows.

“I… did a Not Such a Good Thing, Sherlock,” John admitted.

“Yes, do tell me about your conversation with my darling Big Brother,” Sherlock drawled.

“I… how… how did you know?”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s just simple logic John. What else could make you possibly feel this bad other than going behind my back to my elder brother regarding Victor Trevor?”

“Oh,” John’s voice was very small.

“And,” Sherlock sighed. “Violet doesn’t realize how much her voice carries in the flat, especially when you two are having your little late night heart-to-hearts. Americans. So…” Sherlock sniffed derisively. “Loud.” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John felt even worse than he did before. _Idiots, both of us, me and Violet, thinking we can pull a fast one over Sherlock Holmes._ “God, I’m sorry, really. But we were worried and Victor seemed to be pestering you, showing up at the flat with little notice, texting you, asking you for a drink when you clearly told him to back off until the Rucastle case was resolved. We just wanted, needed to be sure Victor wasn’t going to be a problem and you weren’t telling us anything about him.”

“I admitted to Violet that I felt Victor was a possible distraction,” Sherlock said flatly. “That I want him to leave me alone, that he belongs to the past, a past I prefer not to think about.”

“She… didn’t mention that to me,” John made a mental note to wring Violet’s neck when she returned to 221B Baker Street.

“Forgive her John. She’s been stretched very thin as of late since everyone insists I am too unwell to work. I’m sure it slipped her mind. Not everyone has a memory like mine.”

“You’re… defending her.”

“Of course.”

“You’re… not angry? At her? Or… at me?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not pleased with the situation, but I’m not angry at either of you. You both were concerned, which _almost_ moved me truth be told. It is rather gratifying to have people actually being concerned about my welfare, even though Violet’s concern is tinged slightly with selfish reasons as I am her cover story while she remains in hiding in England. But you, uh,” Sherlock faltered. “Yes, err… you _can_ ask me questions John. If I’m not comfortable with answering or am in a situation where I cannot answer, I will let you know. I told you,” Sherlock suddenly became very interested in the toes of his socks… concealing his abject terror as he realized he just opened a Pandora’s Box.

“I told you…” Sherlock felt his mouth go utterly dry. He reached for his tea, stone cold now. “I told you I trust you.” He drained his cup, hoping to hide his sudden discomfort.

What if… what if John asks… _That Question_ … That Question that has hovered over both of their heads ever since Sherlock returned from his Great Hiatus…?

_Sherlock, how do you feel about me? Truly?_

_John please, I beg you. Don’t ask me_ that _. Ask me anything else, just don’t ask me_ that _, you’re married, you’re married to a woman who has already tried to kill me once… not to mention Moriarty is still out there and he’s tried to kill you twice…_

_If it’s not even safe for me to acknowledge_ my own son _, a child not even born yet… how could it ever be safe for me to say you are anything more to me than a work partner and best friend? More than just a_ pressure point _…_

_And I know time is running out for Violet. 221B Baker won’t be a sanctuary for her much longer. Mycroft will have her killed if she doesn’t give him what he wants. As much as I don’t want her to leave…  I must find a way for her to return safely to America…as herself. As Violet Hunter._

His chest hurt.

It wasn’t from the bronchitis.

_Alone is what I have…alone is what protects… the people… I…_

“Sherlock?”

… _love_.

“Sherlock, you OK?”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock informed John in his normal, detached voice, albeit a bit scratchy from the sore throat. “If I didn’t trust you, I would have never given you the memory stick of my childhood therapy sessions. If I didn’t want you to watch those videos, I would have destroyed the memory stick. Besides,” he said lightly, “It would be highly hypocritical for me to be angry with you for doing your research. After all, I obtained your birth certificate to learn your middle name when you refused to tell me.” 

“Yeah, how’n the hell did you get that? That was in a safety deposit box in my bank!”

Sherlock smiled, “Is that the question you really want to ask me ? Or would you rather ask me about Victor?”

“Actually,” John hesitated. “Maybe we could discuss Victor when Violet gets back? Save you from repeating yourself?”

“Of course,” Sherlock looked at John from the top of the silvery-blond head to the toes of his well-worn brown shoes, then back up, not stopping until he fixed his eyes on John’s hands. Fixed his eyes on John fidgeting with his wedding band, “And you want to discuss Mary in private.”

He nodded, his face paling a little. “Yeah…”

Sherlock sat up. “John? What has happened?”

“Mycroft turned the tables on me when I went to talk to him about Victor,” John whispered. He cleared his throat  and forced himself to speak in his normal voice. “I also went to Mycroft to do Violet a favor, to get that prick to unfreeze her bank accounts. But… I mean…” John swallowed hard, stared at the floor. “Look, I know he’s fucking with me, Mycroft, that is. Playing his rotten old mind games, but… it’s working, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock hated seeing his best friend, his first _real_ friend in so much pain. “What did he do?” he demanded coldly. “What. Did. He. Say?”

John took a deep, steadying breath. “He knows Mary shot you last summer.”

Sherlock froze. Then his head lolled to one side as his shoulders slumped. “Oh… fuck.”

John snickered then giggled. He couldn’t help it. Sherlock’s expletives were typically quite tame. _Damn, hell, blast, bloody_ … one time John could have sworn he heard Sherlock exclaim, “Oh crumpets,” when he gave himself a paper cut opening a letter.

Sherlock’s deeper chuckles joined in with John’s giggles. “Yes, well…” he coughed then tried again. “Well, you and Violet are rubbing off on me, I suppose.” Seeing that the laugh broke the tension as well as lessened John’s dreadful anxiety, Sherlock asked, “What exactly did my wonderful loving elder brother say?”

“Oh, you can probably figure it out. He hit all the pressure points. Mary shot you. Mary’s using me to cover her own arse. Mary…” John trailed off.

“Doesn’t love you,” Sherlock finished.

“If you make one wisecrack about sentiment-”

“I have been informed by a fairly reliable source that there is a vast difference between love and sentiment,” Sherlock said placidly while remembering an intensely uncomfortable conversation he had with Violet last March…

_… he loves you._

_Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. Of all the observations you could have provided, you decide to speak about mawkish idiocies instead of giving me something useful to listen to. Sentimental drivel that is advantageous to no one._

_… Don’t confuse sentiment with love. Love is standing next to someone’s side while he is being crucified in the press for kidnapping two children from a boarding school. Love is punching a cop in the face after that cop arrested his best friend. Love is forgiving that same best friend after he returns from faking his death for two years…_

“Sentiment is a weak emotion, easily forgotten once the moment passes,” Sherlock quoted Violet’s words to John. “Mary loves you John, her dedication to you is glaringly obvious. I’m surprised Mycroft doesn’t recognize it. Actually,” Sherlock frowned, getting that pinched, angry look on his face he always did when he thought about his brother. “Scratch that. I’m not surprised at all Mycroft missed such an obvious fact.” 

“Mycroft wouldn’t know love if it bit him on the arse,” John agreed.

“Mm, I believe he pays ladies to do that for him. Bite him on the arse.”

John started giggling again. “God, that’s awful. Thanks for that horrible mental image, Sherlock. I’m going to have nightmares for months now.”

“Better than the PTSD nightmares.”

“I think I’d rather dream about Afghanistan than Mycroft,” John snickered, then sobered. “But Mycroft didn’t deduce that Mary shot you. Magnussen told him.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he said, “What,” as a statement, not a question.

John nodded, “Yeah. Mycroft knew. He knew Sherlock, he knew the whole fucking time you planned on stealing his work computer and to meet Magnussen at Appledore. And he just let it happen, just like he let the Fall happen, just like he let the Earl happen...”

Sherlock flinched a little when John brought up the Earl’s name, looked away from John.

John noticed, felt a pang of remorse for dredging up old, bad memories for his friend, but he soldiered on, “Not only did he sell you out to Jim Moriarty and the Earl of Winchester but to Magnussen as well. Magnussen told Mycroft Mary shot you.”

Sherlock, of course, had deduced Mycroft knew about his suicide mission to Appledore ages ago. Sherlock had needed to Mycroft to know actually. It was the only way Mycroft would have brought his laptop to Christmas. However, the fact remained that Magnussen had sought Mycroft out and had a conversation regarding Sherlock with Mycroft… a conversation that Mycroft apparently didn’t think was important enough to tell Sherlock about. Sherlock tried to find it within himself to become angry with his brother and discovered he was just plain too tired to care about Mycroft and his endless plots and schemes at the moment.

Why couldn’t Mycroft just… go away? 

_Leave me alone, Big Brother…_

_Leave my friends alone… no. Leave my_ family _alone._

Now he felt a flicker of anger.

He studied John’s tired, careworn face.

He thought about Violet’s life, hanging on the whims of men who operated in the shadows.

Worried about Molly and Lestrade.

Feared for his son.

Tried not to think anymore about the Earl of Winchester.

Painfully remembered Ford… _He’s gone William and he’s not coming back…_

_Don’t call me William, my name is Sherlock…_

The spark of anger started kindling within him.

“Mycroft will not harm Mary,” Sherlock said, controlling his voice.

“He knows Mary is up to something,” John said. “He told me to tell her to lay off her side project, basically saying it’s not in her best interest, whatever it is she’s doing.”

“She’s not up to her old tricks, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sherlock said. “She hasn’t been…errr…. _freelancing_ as she used to before she got out and met you. But,” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed, looking almost golden in the dim light of the lounge. “She _is_ working a case of her own. She is trying to solve a very personal mystery. But there is neither evil intent nor foul play involved… unless someone gets in her way, of course.” He rubbed his chest, grimacing, remembering the shrieking pain of the bullet piercing his body.

“A personal mystery? A case of her own, how…how can you be sure?”

“Because,” Sherlock sighed, “Violet has been helping her.”

_My dear Violet,_ he thought _. I thought you said there was no point for us to lie to each other?_

**  

Wiggins loped into a completely different pub than the one in which he had inadvertently met the terrifying Mrs. Watson. This pub was completely off the radar to the tourists and the well-to-do. This was the type of pub that was the Last Stop before the crack dens and flop houses. This was the type of pub where all sorts of deals went down.

And Wiggins liked to deal… just not drugs anymore.

He could never get away from the rush of the sales pitch and sealing the deal.

_Sod it, maybe I’ll give up computers and become a car salesman_ , he thought, sliding into a grimy booth, pint in his hand. A pint he had no intention of drinking, it was merely a prop.

Then he thought about the money Mrs. Watson had given  him and realized that was more than he would make in a month as a car salesman.

She was fucking scary, Mrs. Watson.

Neither Dr. Watson nor Mrs. Watson had realized that Wiggins had been hiding in the Empty House, on stand-by per Shezza’s directives, in case something else went horribly wrong. Like Mrs. Watson shooting Sherlock, again… or shooting Dr. Watson by mistake.

He had meant what he shouted at the crazy bitch: _How the fuck did John Watson wind up with someone like_ you?

He sighed, taking his sobriety coin out and spinning it on the sticky table. _You ain’t doing this for_ _her_ , he reminded himself. _You’re doing this for Dr. Watson_. _He’s an OK bloke._

He hoped if the infant was found, Dr. Watson would leave the bitch and hightail it out of England the minute the ink was dry on the divorce decree. _Heard New Zealand’s quite nice… be a good spot to raise a kid. It’s nice and far away from her crazy mum. Plus Dr. Watson can take the tyke to see the Hobbit Holes from the_ Lord of the Rings _films. Kids love that kind of shit._

Shezza would be heartbroken if Dr. Watson left… but on the other side, rumor had it he was quite cozy with his new squeeze, the ginger that had been hanging off the side of the Wobbly Bridge with him last March. Didn’t know what she really looked like, she could be a real munter for all Wiggins could tell. But she sounded pleasant enough on the phone when she had called him claiming that Shezza had a job for him. Or at the very least, she hadn’t sounded homicidal, which was a good thing, in Wiggins’ book that is. He had about had it with _crazy_.

“Hey.”

Wiggins looked up, snatched up the spinning coin and tucked it into his pocket as a handsome black man sat down across from him. “Hi,” the man said causally, as if meeting an old friend.

Violet would have recognized this man had she been there. He was the man who helped her defuse  the bomb Sally Donovan had been sitting on in the abandoned candy factory.

The Met knew him as Collins. Bill knew him as “Mitty, hey.”

“How’s sober living treating you?” Collins reached across and took Wiggins’ pint.

“Fuckin’ sucks,” Wiggins said as he extended an envelope of money under the table towards Collins. “Gonna to need to call my sponsor after this. Really wanna use right now, can’t fuckin’ lie,” he laughed weakly.

Collins/Mitty took the money and then handed Wiggins a memory stick. “Trust me, mate, you’re going to want to stay clean for the shit storm that’s about to break loose. You’ll need your wits.”

“What’s happening?” Wiggins asked warily as Mitty took a long drink of beer. “I keep hearing chatter but nobody can confirm shit.”

“Give what I gave you to Mrs. Watson,” Mitty said softly, his dark eyes darting around everywhere, checking to make sure no one was too interested in their conversation. “Then stay the hell away from her. Make sure the rest of the Network does too.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Wiggins demanded.

“Before you leave, get the word out,” Mitty took another swig of beer. “Let everyone who matters know, Mary Watson has the advantage. She’s got the upper hand.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Mitty told him.

Wiggin turned white as a sheet. The _need_ to use had never felt stronger. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whimpered.

“Yeah,” Mitty said.

“She’s got Mycroft Holmes’ balls in a vise, doesn’t she?”

“For now,” Collins finished the pint. “The Ice-Man’s making countermoves, doing his research… but right now, yeah, she’s got him by the short and curlies. And once she figures out the truth, all hell is going to break loose.” Looking Wiggins over, he said slowly, “How about I just take you to a meeting now? I’m sure there’s one going on somewhere…”

But Wiggins shook his head. “Gonna text my sponsor, tell him I’m in trouble and have him pick me up. You can stay until he comes… if you like. If you want.”

Mitty nodded. He liked Bill Wiggins. He wasn’t going to leave someone fresh out of rehab and newly in the program in the middle of a crisis. “I’ve got no plans for tonight… unless some bugger decides to try and blow up Parliament.”

As Wiggins pulled out his mobile and started texting his sponsor, he asked, “What about John Watson? What’s he gonna do when he finds all this shit out?”

“Honestly, mate?” Mitty closed his eyes. “I have a feeling once the shit hits the fan; it’ll be him taking a swan-dive off the roof of St. Bart’s. And his Hiatus will be a bit more… permanent.” 

 **

Evie Payne-Ellis looked up from the script she was studying when her flat-mate Josie Tey let herself in. ”Did you get the milk?” she asked as she tucked a brunette curl behind her ear.

“Aw damn. I forgot,” Josie’s shoulders’ slumped. “Sorry. I’ll go to Tesco now.”

“Forget it,” Evie tossed the script aside. “You looked knackered. How did the auditions go?”

Josie shrugged. “Same as they always do. A polite ‘thank you very much, we’ll be in touch.’ After a while, it almost sounds poetic,” she flopped despondently into a ratty powder blue armchair. It was ugly and obviously a relic from the Eighties, but sinfully comfortable. “I might fire my agent, actually. I feel like I’m paying him for nothing.”

“Something will turn up,” Evie said. “Remember I was having a bit of a dry spell too then this came along,” her brown eyes glowed with pride as she held up a very battered playbook, with  _Hamlet_  typed out in an _Ye Olde English_ font acrossthe pea-green cover page.

“You’re an understudy,” Josie flatly reminded her.

“For Ophelia!” Evie said hotly. “It’s an important part!”

“Only if the actress playing her gets sick! Or commits suicide in real life.”

“Ha ha,” Evie said sourly. “You know, you don’t get to piss on my parade just because you’re having a dry spell!” She fanned herself with the script. “Fucking hell, it’s hot.”

“That reminds me,” Josie undid her sleek blond up-do and let her hair tumble down over her shoulders. “Power bill’s due.”

Evie suddenly looked embarrassed. Her cheeks pinked up. “Um… can you float me a month?”

“A month? Don’t you mean ‘another month in a row’? This is the second time now, Evie,” Josie glared at her flat-mate. “Jesus Christ, I’m not made of fucking money. God, I honestly don’t know if I can pay the whole bill by myself.”

Evie scowled right back at Josie. “I paid the whole rent for three bleeding months by myself until you got that posh job at Westaways.”

Josie felt her insides turn to liquid. She closed her hands tightly together, not wanting to look at the healing scrapes. “Yeah, well. It turned out not to be such a great job after all. And I paid you back so you can’t use that against me.”

“Well,” Evie whined, “Can’t you call your parents? They’re solicitors, surely-”

“I’m not asking my mum and dad for any more money,” Josie kicked off her shoes. Wiggling her toes, she asked, “Why aren’t you asking your mum and dad?”

“How do you think I paid the rent by myself for three fucking months when you weren’t working?” Evie snapped. Then she softened, looked piteous, “OK, I was going to tell you tomorrow, but I’m out of a job.”

 “Ah, shit, Evie…” Josie dragged her hand over her face. “Did you get sacked?”

“No, the entire bloody café closed. Went under. Embezzlement or some shit, dunno,” Evie shrugged. “I showed up for my shift and I was handed a final pay cheque and was told Best of Luck. I deposited it before it could bounce. I’ve got enough to cover my share of the rent and groceries for this month, but that’s it. And I dunno when I’m going to able to find a job. I’m expected to show up for rehearsals, even if I’m not actually on stage.”

“Well,” Josie said, smiling a little. “Maybe ‘Ophelia’ could have a little accident?”

Evie cracked a grin, “Push her off the stage?”

“Accidentally push her off the stage.”

“Oh but of course!” Evie said angelically and both girls started giggling. “No, I couldn’t really do that,” Evie sighed. “Lizzy Sinclair’s playing Ophelia and I like her.” She signed again, dramatically. “I need a drink.”

“I think there’s some vodka left,” Josie suddenly felt a desire to drink as well.

Chasing her dreams had seemed romantic and fun while in university. There was nothing romantic or fun about living in a manky old flat in a crap part of London, never having enough money to have nice things or do anything really fun. Getting rejected for parts over and over…

After her harrowing experience with that lunatic who had started hitting her over and over in the back of the Town Car on the way to meet her client… Josie was seriously thinking about chucking in the towel and getting a nice, normal nine-to-five job…

Except the idea of spending the rest of her life trapped in a stuffy office doing monotonous work that only served to make rich men richer scared her more than the beating she received from that crazy old woman.

Josie got the bottle of cheap vodka out of the freezer out and orange juice out of the refrigerator. The juice had expired two days ago, but Josie figured the alcohol would kill any lingering germs.

She fixed two strong screwdrivers and brought them out to the lounge.

“You should get a job bar-tending,” Evie said, gratefully accepting the cocktail. “At one of those fancy pubs, the ones where all the American tourists visit,” she took a big gulp and squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the cheap alcohol burned her throat. Rubbing her nose, she said, “Say what you will about the Yanks, at least those tossers tip well.”

“God bless America,” Josie said sardonically, lifting her glass.

“So, I was thinking,” Evie said tentatively, watching Josie drink, “About applying. At Westaways.”

“What?” Josie nearly spit her drink right back out. “After what happened to me? Are you mad?”

“You said you reported that berk to the owner, to that Miss Stroper?”

“Missy,” Josie corrected her. “Her first name’s Missy. Missy Stroper. Dunno if she’s married or not. Anyway, that’s not the point. Yes, I called Missy and told her what happened.”

“So, that nutter’s been put on the Black List and he’s not allowed to use their services anymore, right?” Evie pressed on.

Reluctantly, Josie muttered, “Well. Yeah. I suppose.”

“And you said the money was good.”

“The money was _really_ good.”

“And it’s not prostitution? None of the girls actually sleep with the clients?”

“Oh don’t kid yourself,” Josie snorted. “Some of the girls do freelance, but that’s on their own time. If a girl gets caught whoring while on Westaways’ time, she’s sacked immediately. But if she wants to be a whore on her own time,” Josie shrugged. “But I was always very straightforward with my clients. I told them I wasn’t That Kind of Escort.”

“And they were OK with that?”

“I didn’t have problems until that night. Evie, it’s just not a good idea. The bitch that picked me up for her boss was stark raving mad. She tried to tie me up! I dunno what would have happened to me if the car doors had been locked or that lady hadn’t helped me at the bar…”

Josie ran her finger around the rim of her glass, remembering the strange woman she had met at the bar. She had looked dead scary, with her black eye makeup and her slicked back hair. But she had been so gentle, bandaging up her hurt hands, offering to foot the bill if she hired that freakish detective, the one with the stupid hat and who had faked his death all those years ago.

Josie shivered, recalling vividly the disgusting perfume the old witch in the Town Car had worn. How it had really hurt when that old bat suddenly started hitting her. The old hag had bony fists and a surprisingly strong punch. “It’s just… not a good idea, Evie. Not just because what happened to me. I mean, there’s also that serial killer running loose too. Those girls getting kidnapped then burnt up… in fact, you and me.  We need to make a pact. We need to tell each other religiously where we are going, when we’re leaving, when we’re coming back.”

“OK,” Evie nodded. “Yeah, we should. And I’ll find something, if you can help through this month,” Evie made herself look piteous again.

“Oh of course,” Josie finished her drink. “That’s what friends do. I’m sorry I was bitchy earlier. It’s been a crap week for me.” She got off her ugly, comfortable chair and joined her friend on the ugly, comfortable sofa. “I’ll run lines with you.”

“Would you?” Evie brightened but then asked, “Are you sure? You look exhausted.”

“Nah, caught my second wind. But,” Josie took the script from Evie and opened it to the first page. “You have to promise me you won’t apply at Westaways.”

“I promise,” Evie lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's complaint about not enough data came from here: 
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Copper Beaches. The complete Sherlock Holmes (287). Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co..
> 
> I don't think the late ACD minds if I play with his characters, but I'm afraid he might haunt me if I take credit for them! :^)
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading. for leaving kudos and for commenting. I love all comments and love replying to comments so "Don't be shy... step into the light..." 
> 
> I MIGHT have watched "Desolation of Smaug" again this weekend :-/
> 
> Have a great week everyone!!!


	12. They Won’t Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But this also meant that, as Violet Hunter would have charmingly put it, had she been present “The shit’s rolling downhill.” American slang is very expressive sometimes.** Sherlock thought as he and Lucas walked into the desolate building, where dreams and ships had been made..." 
> 
> Violet experiences her first few days on the job at the Rucastles.  
> And John is somehow surprised that his wife is a lying liar who lies.

Chapter Twelve: They Won’t Stop

4 August 2015  
Jepthro Rucastle’s Residence  
Tuesday afternoon  
3:42 PM

Violet looked down at her outfit again and rolled her eyes.

Arthur Toller had shown up at 221B Baker Street, inexplicitly wearing a grey suit with a purple tie and matching purple handkerchief in the breast pocket in the stifling summer heat. He carried boxes of clothes for Violet. Her uniforms that Rucastle insisted she wear while caring for dear little Eddie.

She had been out walking Gladstone when Toller had stopped by. Mrs. Hudson was still on holiday. So Sherlock had only been wearing a towel around his narrow waist, his dark curls still dripping with water when he had answered the door for Toller.

“For Miss Smith,” Toller had said unperturbed, holding out the shirt boxes.

Sherlock had slammed the door in Toller’s face. Toller had left the boxes at the door with a note to Violet. Fortunately the tenants at 221C were also out of town and 221A was still empty, so the parcels had been undisturbed. Violet had taken them inside and opened them, finding the silliest and frilliest of blouses ever with little puffed sleeves. Then she opened the rest of the boxes to find slim pencil skirts in varying shades of black and gray. Elegant clothes, appropriate clothes if she were still a personal assistant at the old insurance agency she had worked at previously… but not as a nanny to a young child.

In the last box, Violet had found a hand-written note from Rucastle reminding her to wear the scarf he had given her. He had assured her that all the blouses would match the scarf nicely.

There was also a postscript reminding her to please wear heels at least three inches high. 

Violet had then vowed to herself to make Sherlock pay for making her go undercover if it was the last thing she ever did.

She had arrived Monday morning at 7:30 on the dot, as instructed. Violet was unfamiliar with the Belgravia neighborhood, but Sherlock and John would have recognized area immediately. Irene Adler had lived in Belgravia once.

But Jepthro Rucastle’s residence was far larger and much, _much_ more ostentatious than Irene’s elegant terrace house. Rucastle’s house struck Violet more as a fortress than a home. Then she had remembered how Alice had referred to her father’s London home as a prison and shuddered. 

Mrs. Toller had opened the door with the same gruesome smile she had worn when she had welcomed Violet to “The Family” and told Violet to please come inside.

Violet, after a cursory glance behind her to make sure Sherlock wasn’t lurking around somewhere outside, had smiled and followed the dour woman inside the lavish home. 

During the tour of the house, Violet’s eyes had watered from the overpowering fumes of Mrs. Toller’s nasty _White Diamonds_ perfume.  Once they had arrived in a small room Mrs. Toller called “her office”, she had pulled out a thick binder roughly about the size of _War and Peace_. “This,” she had shoved the binder into Violet’s arms, “is everything you need to know about Edward. You will adhere to this to the letter. Especially to his schedule, it is critical that he follows the schedule _precisely_.”

“Why is that?” Violet made her voice sound innocent. “Does he have some behavioral issues I need to know about? Attention-deficit  or autism…?”

_Or maybe he’s just a really fucking creepy kid_ she had thought, remembering the look of savage glee on his face when he had smashed a cockroach with his shoe.  

“No, Edward is a normal little boy,” Mrs. Toller had looked down her nose at Violet. “His mother is poorly. It is critical he adheres to our schedule so he does not stress his mother. He needs to stay out of her way as she recovers from her… illness.”

“Oh,” was all Violet could say at the time, but when she had met the second Mrs. Rucastle, she had thought, _How could Edward stress this woman out? She’s a fucking zombie._  

Tristan Holloway might have been considered beautiful back in her “Trixie Holiday” era. Her most notable feature was still her pewter gray eyes, framed by thick black lashes. What was left of her looks though seemed to be washed out, faded away. Now she was silent, pale-faced and listless. Her wheat-colored hair hung limply to her shoulders, lank and unwashed. On Monday, she had spent the day drifting from room to room with a lost look on her face. When Violet had introduced herself to Tristan, the woman merely seemed to look through Violet, mumbled something that sounded like she was trying to thank her for caring for wee Eddie, then she floated away, humming under her breath.

“Now do you see why  we need to keep Master Edward from  underneath her feet?” Mrs. Toller had hissed into Violet’s ear.

Violet couldn’t decide what smelled worse: Tristan’s unwashed body or Mrs. Toller’s horrid perfume. The giant house already seemed utterly claustrophobic. The air itself pressed down upon her. For the first time in ages, she craved a cigarette.

When Sherlock asked Violet to describe Tristan Holloway Rucastle after her first day as Edward’s tutor, Violet had stayed silent for a while. Then she said (while John took notes for the case as well as his blog): “Just… absolutely colorless, devoid of any personality. Like a piece of furniture for an apartment. Bland, beige… just kind of… _there_ … the only time she really came to life was when Rucastle came home for tea.”

Little Edward’s schedule was ridiculous, especially for a small child. Violet had shown her binder to Sherlock and John.

“Dear Lord,” Sherlock had murmured while John said “What the hell?”

8:00 AM          Wake Up Time  
8:15 AM          Brush Teeth, Comb Hair, Dress  
8:30 AM          Breakfast  
9:00 AM          Morning Constitution  
9:30 AM          Arithmetic  
10:30 AM        French  
11:30 AM        Lunch  
12:30 PM        Afternoon Constitution  
1:30 PM          Art   
2:30 PM          Nap  
3:00 PM          Leisure Time  
4:00 PM          Afternoon Tea with Parents and Staff

And that was just for that particular Monday.

“I’m free to leave after tea, which means I don’t get out of that fucking house until five o’clock or so,” Violet had explained while Sherlock thumbed through the massive binder, reading about Edward’s likes and dislikes, food allergies and various vitamins and supplements he needed to take, what sports he was allowed to play, what brands of clothes he was allowed to wear, what kinds of fabric those clothes needed to be, what museums and parks Violet was allowed to take him to (schedule allowing of course), what television shows and movies he was allowed to watch, what music he was allowed to listen to and what books he was allowed to read.

“What’s a Morning and Afternoon Constitution?” John had asked.

“I’m supposed to take him for a walk around the block,” Violet had said through clenched teeth, “As if he’s a _dog_. Oh, and the Art? I’m actually expected to teach a six-year-old about Art History. Like teach him about Michelangelo and Picasso and Vermeer.”

“Did you?” John had asked.

Violet had smirked as she pulled off the electric blue scarf Rucastle had given her. “No, I let him color for the hour.”

“Atta girl,” Sherlock had said silkily, still reading the binder.

John had also asked, “And what six-year-old needs a nap? And when in the hell is the kid supposed to _be_ a kid in all of this? When does he get to go play? Make friends?”

“Is,” Sherlock had said very slowly, “The boy a genius? Is that why he’s homeschooled?”

Both John and Violet had hesitated. Violet had known from her previous “research” and John had just recently learned from Mycroft that Sherlock had been pulled from primary school and had never gone to secondary school. He had been taught at home because of his genius. Ordinary teachers couldn’t keep up with an extraordinary boy.

John didn’t care what Mycroft had told him… everyone knew what _loneliness_ was.

“No,” Violet had finally broken the heavy silence. “Intellectually, he’s normal for a six-year-old, but emotionally? I don’t know. If I can swing it, if I can get that kid out of the house for longer than thirty minutes, if you two could meet us at a park or zoo, someplace where you can observe him… I just feel like there’s something not right about him… I don’t think this schedule is meant only to keep him away from Tristan. Until tea time, that is,” she had rolled her eyes.

“Tea,” Mrs. Toller had instructed Violet on Monday, her first day, “Is very important. It’s a Family Event,” she had nodded decisively. “It’s often the only time Mr. Rucastle gets to see Mrs. Rucastle and Edward. Everyone is expected to attend,” she gave Violet a very sharp glance. “And I do mean everyone, Miss Smith. You’re part of The Family now. Don’t think for one minute you’ll be allowed to scarper off at four o’clock when Mr. Rucastle comes home. He’ll expect a full report on Master Edward’s day.”

“You may call me Violet, if you like,” Violet had said, friendly enough, “Since I’m part of The Family and all.”

But Mrs. Toller had scowled at her. “I will not, _Miss Smith_. That would be inappropriate. And you will address me as Mrs. Toller, if you please.”

“Alright,” Violet had been taken aback and decided it was completely pointless to attempt any sort of friendly chatter with the stringy old hag.

The stringy old hag, even though she had insisted during Violet’s interview she was so busy running Rucastle’s houses, offices, handling his bookkeeping, taking care of Mrs. Rucastle and feeding Edward’s pug Little Carlo, seemed to have ample spare time on her hands. She spent all of Monday and most of today popping into whatever room Violet and Edward happened to be in unexpectedly, frowning, looking down at Violet, as if expecting to catch Violet doing something _inappropriate_.

When she caught Edward coloring instead of studying art history, she had sneered at Violet, “Mr. Rucastle will hear about this.”

Violet, thoroughly irritated by the nasty old woman by this point, had assumed her Original Miss Smith persona. “Go right ahead Mrs. Toller,” she had said imperiously, then turned her back on the woman in a majestic manner  and watched Edward gleefully attack construction paper with a giant purple crayon.

But she had resumed her simpering Miss Smith 2.0 demeanor when Mrs. Toller did tattle on her during tea. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr. Rucastle. But it’s been in my experience that it’s better to allow young children to express their creativity rather than have them read about it in books. Six-year-olds just don’t have the memory capacity to retain information such as Art History. Besides, I thought it might brighten Mrs. Rucastle’s day, if Eddie made pictures for his Mummy,” Violet had smiled deferentially, sipping her god-awful bitter tea.

Edward had been sitting on Tristan’s lap. The wan, plain woman (still in her pyjamas) had brightened when Violet had said that. “Oh, yes, they did. Oh, Jeffy,” she had turned to Rucastle, adoration shining from her pewter gray eyes, “Can he? Can he just color instead of study?”

“Of course!” Rucastle had boomed jovially. “Miss Smith knows best, after all,” he had given her a big, exaggerated wink. “She’s the expert, of course. Let him color. I loved coloring as a kid and look at me now! In fact…” and Rucastle had launched into a long soliloquy about his various art projects as a child. Tristan had listened rapturously. Everyone else, even the dog Little Carlo, had been bored stiff by Rucastle’s stories.

Violet stifled a sigh, checked her gold wristwatch, eager to get this day over with. The day, the week, the month, the case…

Violet wasn’t sure what Edward was supposed to do during his Leisure Time, so she chose a common sense option. She just let him play whatever he wanted in his giant playroom.

He had made it known yesterday he did _not_ want Miss Smith playing with him. However, according to The Binder, she was not to leave Edward alone. Ever. So, swallowing her irritation, hoping she could have a chance to snoop around the giant house on her own, she sat in a white rocking chair, a leftover from Edward’s baby days and watched the boy play.

The room was stuffed with every toy imaginable. None of them entertained Edward for long.

She tugged at the stupid skirt as she shifted in the rocking chair trying to get comfortable. At least this skirt had more than enough material to cover her backside, but it was also tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination as well.

And the blouses… Violet had actually blushed at how low-cut some of them were. Despite the heat, she had to wear a camisole underneath it or else all of London would see her goods.

A kid had made a mistake of whistling at her and making lewd remarks at her on the Tube this morning. She had pulled her switchblade out of the secret pocket of her handbag and flicked the blade open discreetly so only the kid could see.

He had turned snow-white and shut his pie-hole. 

Now, as she watched Edward roam around, pushing a toy fire engine around only to lose interest and start playing with an army action figure instead, she texted Sherlock notes about the child’s behavior and then deleted her Sent messages as soon as she received the notification the texts had been delivered:

Starts a game, immediately loses interest. ADHD?  
Plays rough w/puppy. Red flag or just too young for a pet?  
Easily frustrated when things don’t go his way.  
Had toddler-like meltdown when Lego tower fell down.  
Wants nothing to do with me, yet got agitated when I left to pee.  
Personality disorder or extreme anxiety due to mom’s illness?   
Or is he just a spoiled brat?

Even though she was texting Sherlock just to have records of her observations in case her mobile was confiscated, broken or lost, the Great Detective responded anyway:

Instead of sending me boring texts  
film what he’s doing   
and send me the video - SH

_Oh, why didn’t I think of that?_ Violet shook her head.

Her mobile vibrated:

You didn’t think of it  
because you’re not as   
clever as I am.  
Obviously – SH

Violet rolled her hazel eyes and texted him back:

Yeah yeah yeah we know.  
No one is as smart as you, Holmie – VS

Her mobile vibrated a few minutes later:

There will be dire consequence if  
you ever call me ‘Holmie’ ever again – SH

She texted back:

OK, OK…. Shezza – VS

Sherlock’s reply was swift:

I will murder you in your sleep. – SH

Violet quickly texted back, suppressing her giggles:

Got to get past Gladstone first, William.  
Or do you prefer Willie? – VS

Her mobile vibrated less than a minute after she sent that message:

I prefer Sherlock.  
And I’ve drugged your dog before.   
As well as you.   
Enjoy wondering if I’ve slipped   
something “extra” in your dinner tonight ;-) – SH

Violet texted back:

Did the Great Detective actually   
use an emoticon in his text? – VS

Her mobile vibrated:

Get back to work, Miss Smith >:-\  SH

Violet texted a “ :-P “ back to him, erased her messages then slipped her Smartphone back into her pocket just as Mrs. Toller popped her head into Edward’s nursery. “Tea in fifteen minutes, Miss Smith.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Toller.” Violet said dismissively, not even turning around in her chair. After Mrs. Toller departed with a scowl, Violet told the young boy, “Edward, time to put your toys away and get ready for tea with your father.” 

Edward whirled around. Scrunched his face up, threw his action figure to the floor. “NO!” he bellowed at her, stamping her foot. “I will _not_.”

Violet stifled a sigh of frustration. Part of her wondered if this was another symptom of some sort of psychological disorder with the boy. The other part of her just wanted to give the brat a good old-fashioned spanking.

Then, remembering her recent text exchange with Sherlock, she turned her back towards Edward, who had obstinately plopped down to the floor and crossed his arms and legs. She took her Smartphone back out of her pocket and turned the video recorder on. Discreetly setting the mobile on a chest of drawers where she knew it would record everything, she sat on the floor next to Edward. “Eddie, it’s in the rule book your mum and dad gave me. You are supposed to pick up your toys before tea time.”

“No,” the boy sulked. “We have maids. They can pick up my things.”

“Edward, your mum and dad want you to learn how to take care of your things,” Violet decided the word “responsibility” might fly right over the boy’s head. “They want you to learn how take care of your things on your own, in case there isn’t a maid around.”

“We’re rich,” the little boy said haughtily. “We’ll always have maids and servants. Like you. You’re just a servant too, you know.”

_You little puke_ , Violet found herself profoundly glad she never went into child psychology.

Of course, if she had, she might not have gotten trapped in England… but that was neither here nor there… _Focus, Hunter…_

“Your dad does not treat his people like that,” Violet said calmly to Edward even though she had witnessed Rucastle treating Toller like a slave. “That’s very rude. Your mum and dad wouldn’t like hearing you talk like that.”

“Don’t care,” the boy muttered, uncrossing his legs and started drumming them on the floor.

“Edward,” Violet said firmly, “Enough with this nonsense. Please pick up your toys. I will be happy to help you.”

Edward got in her face and started screaming, “ _NO NO NO NO NO NO!_ ”

Violet suddenly missed Archie terribly.

As Edward screeched, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips shut. She could feel the boy’s spit in her face. She was glad she wore fake eyeglasses. She clenched her fists tightly together as the boy screamed in her face. But when he started hitting her, she did grab his wrists, holding him still. 

 “Young man, your father is going to hear about thi-OW!” Violet snatched her hand away after Edward bit her and ran away, darting into a wardrobe and shutting the door.

_FUCKING BRAT_ Violet couldn’t help thinking, examining her hand. The kid had broken the flesh, she was bleeding.

She stood up, looked at her Smartphone pointedly, took a deep breath and then said coolly "Edward,” but then faltered realizing _I don’t know how to handle this_.

Teaching somebody else’s kid was one thing. Disciplining them was quite another.

Against her better judgment, cradling her bleeding hand, she went to consult The Binder.

As Edward continued to scream from within the wardrobe, Violet found the chapter that was titled in a huge, bold ominous font: PUNISHMENT.

“Oh boy,” she murmured to herself after reading the first few paragraphs, but squared her shoulders and turned around.

More for curiosity’s sake, she decided to follow The Binder’s instructions on how to handle the boy’s meltdown:

“Very well, young man,” she made her voice loud and resolute, “ Don’t pick up your things. But your father will hear about how badly you behaved. He might punish you. He might not take you to the Copper Beaches this summer. Or to Paris.”

_Is this how Sherlock feels when he does an experiment he knows is Not Good but he wants to see the end results anyway?_ Violet wondered as a rush of shame and elation filled her chest. Despite how wrong it seemed to threaten to separate him from his father… it the trick. Edward burst from the wardrobe, ran straight towards her, hugged her around her legs and said, “No no no no no no no, don’t tell, please don’t tell! I want to go to the Copper Beaches and Paris! Please don’t tell on me!” He was sobbing now. “Please, Miss Smith?”

Violet pursed her lips, glad of Sherlock’s suggestion to record Edward’s behavior. Granted, most six-year-olds could and would be naughty and would also be upset if punishment was threatened. But Edward’s reactions, for his age, were extreme. He acted like a three-year-old with a huge vocabulary instead of a normal six-year-old boy.

“Then pick up your toys,” Violet kept her voice calm and firm. “And apologize to me for being rude and for biting me.”

“Sorry,” the boy said sullenly, then knelt down and started throwing his action men, remote control cars and hand-held video games into the massive toy chest.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Violet told him, “To get the first aid kit for my hand. I expect this room to be tidied up when I return.”

Edward threw an armful of toys into the chest. “Did I make you bleed?”

Violet held her hand down for Edward to see. She wasn’t bleeding profusely, but blood beaded up around the bite mark on her hand. And it hurt like a bitch. “This is what you did Edward.”

Edward walked to her, studied her hand. Fascinated, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

He looked up. His eyes weren’t dead. They were alive, electrified, “ _Good._ ”

And he skipped back to the toy chest, resuming the arduous chore of putting his toys away.

Violet’s heart thudded as she retrieved her Smartphone and silently slipped out into the hallway. She checked to make sure the hallway was clear before flipping the mobile around, as if she was going to take a “selfie.” She hissed into her mobile, “You tell me that’s not fucked up,” before she ended the recording. She sent the video to both Sherlock and John then deleted it.

At today’s tea, Edward sat on his zombie-mother’s lap again, eyeing Violet warily the entire time. He pressed his thin body against Tristan when Rucastle asked Violet, “I say, what happened to your hand, Miss Smith?”

Violet had been in mid-sip when Rucastle asked her this. She was already having trouble choking down the tea in the first place. Not a fan of tea in the first place, she honestly could not place the strange flavor of the tea. It wasn’t Earl Grey or chamomile. It tasted absolutely dreadful, even after two sugar cubes and a splash of milk.

She swallowed and said “Oh, this?” while holding up her bandaged hand. “Nothing to worry about. Silly accident, I cut myself with a pair of scissors.”

Edward visibly relaxed.  

Rucastle noticed his son’s body language. His piggy eyes studied his son, then Violet. Then  rumbled, “I see… well then, Miss Smith, tell me about my son’s day, please,” he took a dainty sip of his tea then reached for a fairy cake. Then he ate all the fairy cakes while Violet spoke, leaving none for anyone else.

It was only her second day, but Violet already utterly despised tea-time at the Rucastles. The idea of listening to Rucastle brag about himself day after day made Violet queasy… and quite vengeful towards Sherlock for putting her in this position.  

For tea-time everyone (except Edward, who sat on his mother’s lap) sat in very uncomfortable modern chairs in a circle around a low, round table in a room Rucastle called “the parlor”. It was really a nondescript, windowless room, what Violet would have called “a bonus room”, if the house had been in America instead of England. The “parlor” was almost decorated with photographs of Rucastle’s favorite designs. His own designs, naturally.

And the designs were nightmare fuel. One picture was a dress constructed completely out of razor blades. Little wonder the model wearing it had a look of absolute terror on her thin face.

Another dress had been made out of feathers and condoms. Violet had a feeling a garment like that would be a tough sell to K-Mart. _Blue-light special…_

But a replica of a classic painting dominated the entire parlor: an enormous print of Paris Bordone’s _The Rape of Proserpine_. Granted, late night television dramas were a tad more risqué than the fourteenth century painting… still, the bare-breasted woman’s face of total fear and dread as the God of the Underworld spirited her away made it harder than usual for Violet to choke down her tea.

Tristan had spent most of today in bed, but she managed to get up in time for tea. She wore the same pair of pyjamas she had yesterday. Violet could also tell the pyjamas  hadn’t been washed in quite some time now.

She also noticed Tristan’s pupils were dilated. _Hmmm…. That’s a pharmaceutical effect…_

Mrs. Toller had sprayed on more _White Diamonds_ before tea, maybe as a favor to mask Tristan’s foul body odor. After Violet gave Edward a glowing report, Mrs. Toller blandly gave Rucastle what she had accomplished around the house and how Tristan was doing.

Tristan then gave her husband a dewy-eyed smile. “I’m feeling much better today, Jeffy.”

“Wonderful, my pet,” he said with a touch of condescension.

Toller, having spent the entire day with Rucastle, said nothing. He merely sat there in his smart gray suit with his perfectly knotted yellow neck-tie and matching handkerchief. He looked drunk, actually. Maybe he had been nipping on a bottle of something in the kitchen while he and Mrs. Toller prepared tea.

If that was the case, Violet was more than a little jealous.

She still wasn’t sure if Mrs. Toller was Arthur Toller’s mother or wife.

After Mrs. Toller’s bland daily report, Rucastle monopolized the rest of the hour. He talked incessantly about himself and his business with today’s focus on his deal with K-Mart, proclaiming, “Those other retail stores are going to be quite sorry! They should have made a deal with me when they had a chance! Ah, but people always have to learn the hard way that I am the best there is, that I am the best in the business. They should have realized it when I designed several dresses for several actresses who wore them to the BAFTAs. Actresses like…” and then he began the name-dropping.

It was little wonder Violet felt a touch nauseated after leaving the Rucastles that night.

“Sherlock,” she said grimly when she got back to 221B Baker Street that night, “You watched the video of that evil little brat, didn’t you?”

She un-tucked her puffed-sleeved blouse and pulled it away from her body. As if  the unusual heat wave wasn’t already unbearable, the mercury had climbed  a few more degrees the past few days. The entire flat was a now giant sauna instead of just the upstairs bedroom.

Sherlock had finally shaken off the last vestiges of bronchitis, probably because he had sweated the disease out of his system. Now he lay on the sofa in just a thin t-shirt and boxers, the t-shirt inside-out as usual.

He didn’t even open his eyes when he answered her, “Mm. Charming child. Do you need a tetanus shot? ”

“No,” Violet scowled at her bandaged hand. “I need you to hurry up and solve this case before I lose my goddamn mind! Figure out a way to become _Jeffy’s_ BFF ASAP so we get invited to The Copper Beaches so we can find Lady Elise’s journals and negatives and whatever else she might have left behind as evidence. And fucking hell, it’s hot in here.”

Sherlock dispassionately watched Violet tug at the electric blue scarf. Rucastle told her airily she needed to wear it every day because, “It brings out your eyes, dearie.”

As she pulled the scarf from her neck, Violet looked down at her poor dog. Gladstone miserably lay on the floor next to the sofa. He looked like a giant, furry puddle, as if his bones had melted.

She wiped her face with the scarf. “Seriously, is the furnace on?”

“No,” Sherlock mumbled, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and his neck. His meager clothes stuck to his body. His hair even looked damp with sweat. “Air conditioner is on the blink,”

 “No shit, Sherlock,” Violet unbuttoned several buttons of her blouse. “Oh fuck it, you and John have seen everything anyway.” She stripped off the blouse, pulled the camisole over her head and stood there in only her bra and pencil skirt. Then she kicked off her high heels and took off her fake eyeglasses.

“Nice to see you too,” John muttered from “his” chair, blushing all the way up to his hairline as Violet dropped her clothes and fake glasses onto the coffee table.

Suddenly, Violet covered her mouth, realizing she had been talking like herself and not Violet Smith. “Shit, is Mary here?”

“No,” John said. He still had his jeans on but had stripped down to his vest and was also barefoot. “Working.” He pressed a glass of ice water to one cheek, then another.

_Like hell she is_ , Violet thought furiously as she left the muggy lounge to go into the kitchen and stand in front of the open freezer.

She still hadn’t heard from Mary since her initial request for help. She didn’t like that. Not one little bit. But she only yelled to Sherlock “Why in the hell are we staying in this sweatbox if the A/C’s broken?” as she opened the freezer door and sighed in relief as the frosty air hit her skin.

“Helps me think,” Sherlock called back.

“Seriously, Sherlock,” John said again, with the air of someone who had been having this same argument all day. “It’s like an oven in here. You and Violet… both of you just pack an overnight bag and stay at my place tonight.”

“I prefer staying here,” Sherlock said with his eyes closed and hands steepled.

“John, Gladstone and I will happily take you up on your offer,” Violet slammed the freezer door shut. “I’m going to take a shower,” she told “the boys” as she walked out of the kitchen and towards the master bathroom. “There better not be any goddamn fish in the bathtub either.”

John lifted his brows at Sherlock. “Fish?”

“Koi.”

“Okay…?”

“Experiment.”

“Right, of course…” John groaned. But once Violet had slammed the bathroom door shut, John whispered to Sherlock, “What time is your meeting with Mycroft tonight?”

Since John had come clean with Sherlock about his conversation with Mycroft, Sherlock had confessed to John the “deal” he had made with Mycroft about extracting information from Violet.

“Eleven o’clock,” Sherlock mumbled. “His sweet little protégé Anthea will pick me up and take me to some shadowy secret location, probably an abandoned warehouse or factory on the riverfront. How predictable,” he huffed and rolled his eyes. “And dull.”

“You’re going to turn the A/C back on when you leave, aren’t you?” John wiped his brow again. “It really is hotter than hell in here.”

Sherlock opened an eye. “Turn it on? John, I’m going to _fix_ the air conditioner.”

“Fix it? You mean it’s actually broken?”   
  
“Been broken for a few days now, actually.”

“Why didn’t you call a repairman, you idiot? I know Mrs. Hudson’s on holiday, but she’d understand. She doesn’t need to come home to…to… _this_!”

John still believed Mrs. Hudson owned the block of flats. 

Sherlock arched a bushy black eyebrow “Really, John? Do you really think I’m going to waste money on a repairman to come here when I can do the job myself?”

“You can… fix a central air conditioner? By yourself?”

“Of course, I can. It’s not like it’s _difficult_ by any stretch of the imagination. It’s simply a case of reverse engineering in order to ascertain the cause of the problem, then remove the cause and re-assemble the remaining working parts. It’s merely a gigantic puzzle with moveable and interchangeable parts. One of the many reasons  Mrs. Hudson is so fond of me is because I am her unofficial handyman. Who do you think fixed the furnace when it broke down in 2010?” A slow, self-satisfied smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “I estimate I have saved Mrs. Hudson several thousands of pounds by doing most of the repairs for her myself.”

“And yet, you still won’t fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen.”

“Why would I? It doesn’t bother me.”

“What about your water bill?”

Sherlock waved his hand around. “I wrote them a cheque for five thousand pounds when I came back from my Great Hiatus. I figure I have a while before I need to pay the water bill again.”

John merely shook his head. _Must be nice to write a cheque for five grand without a second thought,_ John thought ruefully.

But then John realized Sherlock hadn’t spent a penny of the money Violet gave him for letting her live at 221B Baker Street… and that his own portion of the rent always seemed suspiciously low when he had lived with Sherlock… and that Sherlock always happened to forget to ask John for his half of the power bill, or water bill, or cable bill or Internet bill… or would forget to deposit the cheques when John did give him money for his share of the bills. Or would just hand John his bank card and inform them they needed milk, tea and bread and _oh, pick up some Chinese take-away since you’re going out to do the shopping anyway…_

How could a man with an eidetic memory forget to ask his flat-mate for his share of the rent and bills and groceries anyway?

Sherlock Holmes could be accused of a great many sins and he would quite readily plead guilty to most of them. But he was definitely not guilty of greed or stinginess. Money to Sherlock was merely a tool to accomplish his goals. No more, no less.

And if one of his goals was to help his friends when they were a bit strapped for cash, well, why not? Other than his clothes and his love of the latest mobiles and gadgets, it’s not like he really spent money on himself anyway. Even his precious books were either gifts from grateful clients or he had purchased them from used book shops.

John felt affection for his friend flood through him as he looked at the Great Detective stretched out on the battered old sofa…

… then a mean little voice in his head said, _Shouldn’t you feel that way about your wife?_

_Fuck off,_ John told the mean inner voice. _Two separate feelings. Friendship and love…_

_I’m not gay…_  

“Do you have anything to drink?” John suddenly stood up. “I need a drink.”

“Whisky’s still where you last left it John,” Sherlock muttered. “I don’t enjoy the feeling of being drunk like you do. Slows me down, makes me forgetful.”

John turned to retrieve the alcohol when Violet came down the hallway, wearing nothing but a towel and a scowl on her face.

“Jesus Christ, why doesn’t anyone wear clothes in this place?” John averted his eyes.

“Well, you’re welcome to drop trou and join the Nearly Naked People Club,” Violet said tartly. “Slight change of plans, John can you take Gladstone to your place and I’ll meet you there later? I got a lead on the Burned Girls case and I want to check it out.”

“We should come with you,” John said.

But Violet shook her head. “I won’t be alone, I’m meeting Mary at St. Bart’s. She and I can roam around the hospital unnoticed. You two can’t.”

“She’s right John, let her go,” Sherlock mumbled, not moving an inch.

Once Violet was safely upstairs in John’s old room, getting dressed, Sherlock whispered, “She found the text message from Wiggins in the prepaid mobile she thought she so cleverly hid from me in the bathroom.”

“Well, it did take you nearly two weeks to discover it, so I don’t think she did such a terrible job hiding it,” John whispered back.

“And how often do you riffle through Mary’s feminine hygiene products?” Sherlock shot back. When John blushed again, Sherlock sniffed. “That’s what I thought.”

Soon Violet returned downstairs, wearing a black tank top, khakis shorts, black trainers and sunglasses. Her wet hair was severely braided into a tight plait down her back. She snatched up her handbag, told Sherlock, “Enjoy your sweat lodge,” and grabbed her black ball cap off its hook by the door and left, slamming the door.

“OK, seriously,” John said as Sherlock sprung off the sofa and stepped over Gladstone. “What are they up to, Violet and Mary? Do you know? Did you figure that out yet? What exactly is my wife lying about now?”

“Three ideas,” Sherlock said, going to the broom cupboard, throwing the door open.

“OK… good, care to elaborate?”

“Mary is having an affair with her ex-boyfriend David. Violet is trying to convince her to stop.”

“That doesn’t seem…. right.” John sounded ill as he dragged his hand over his face. Then he wiped the sweaty hand on his jeans.

“It’s possible, but not plausible,” Sherlock pulled an enormous tool kit out of the cupboard and closed the door with his foot. “Violet plans on violating her terms of her ‘parole’ for lack of a better word. Mary is helping her escape England.”

“If she wasn’t involved up to her eyeballs with the Rucastle case, I could see that, actually.”

“Mm, exactly,” Sherlock knelt down in front of the tool kit, opening it, checking to see if he had everything he needed to repair the dodgy old air conditioner.

“And the third?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just fiddled about with the screwdrivers and wrenches.

“Sherlock?”

Still saying nothing, Sherlock examined a Phillips screwdriver.

“Sherlock Holmes, you answer me right this minute.”

Sherlock sighed noisily, his shoulders slumping.

“Your daughter might be alive. Mary wants to be sure before she tells you. Violet is helping her.”

John’s response was quite predictable. He started to sway then put his hands on his knees and lowered his head.

Sherlock guided John back to “his” chair. “I’ll get you that drink now,” he touched his best friend lightly on the shoulder then quickly jerked his fingers away and bolted into the kitchen.

John buried his face in his hands. 

**

4 August 2015  
The Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew   
Tuesday night  
9:09 PM

Violet hurried past the weathered old statue of Henry VII by the hospital’s entrance.

The mad old king reminded Violet too much of Rucastle and she felt her stomach churn again.

She slipped inside the giant old hospital mostly unnoticed. While waiting at the lift, a nurse had looked at her quizzically. “Visiting hours are over, ma’am,” she told Violet.

Violet immediately started blinking her eyes rapidly. “My mum’s in the cancer wing,” she whispered, her hazel eyes shining with crocodile tears. Sherlock, master of crying on cue, would have been impressed, possibly even a bit proud. “There’s not much time left…” Violet allowed a big, fat, fake tear to roll down her cheek.

“Oh,” the nurse’s face immediately softened. “Of course. Forgive me,” and she patted Violet on the shoulder sympathetically.

Violet always hated deceiving genuinely good and kind people, which was why she hated not telling John about her little side project with Mary. Her conscience gnawed at her as she rode the lift to the cancer floor. Once the doors whooshed open, she smiled at the sympathetic nurse and got out of the lift. Then ducked down a corridor and into the stairwell and jogged down the stairs to meet Mary in the quiet little nondenominational chapel where she had told her to wait.

She rehearsed the speech in her head, the same speech she had been rehearsing since she left Baker Street. _You have to tell John, I think Sherlock knows…_  

She peeked through the window and saw the back of Mary’s blonde head. She opened the door and said quietly, using her Miss Smith voice, “It’s me.”

Mary turned around. “Lock the door,” she said, her voice strained.

Violet complied, somewhat surprised to see a lock on a chapel door, but she supposed they locked it up late at night. _Probably to keep the night staff from napping in the pews,_ she reasoned as she walked down the aisle towards Mary.

Mary looked like she could do with a nap… a ten-hour long nap. The huge purple smudges under her eyes clearly telegraphed her sleep deprivation to the world. The rest of her face was just as ghostly white as the day  she’d arrived at Baker Street seeking Violet’s help.  Other than that, to Violet she looked like a soccer mom, in her white t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals… a very stressed-out soccer mom.

“Are you alright?” Violet asked as she slid into the pew next to Mary. When she nodded, Violet hissed, “Pardon my language but where _the hell_ have you been?”

“I thought it would be better if you and I did not spend very much time together around the boys, don’t you agree?” Mary gave Violet a sharp look before turning to rummage through her massive handbag.

“Yes, of course, but how am I supposed to help you when you don’t tell me what’s going on?” Violet snapped back at her. “Besides, I have a horrible feeling Sherlock is on to us, or will  be in the very near future. He let me leave the flat tonight on the flimsiest of pretenses without a word of argument, so I’m fairly certain you and I have aroused the Great Detective’s suspicions.”

“Distract him,” Mary snapped as she took out a tablet and a memory stick. “That’s your primary responsibility!”

“And how precisely am I supposed to accomplish _that_? He’s been sick as a dog, has two cases going on simultaneously not to mention he’s still looking for Moriarty and he still noticed that you and I are up to something. He’s probably telling John about his theories right now if he hasn’t already.”

“Well, you’re his _girlfriend_ ,” Mary said tartly as she turned the tablet on. “Surely you can think of _something_ that could keep his mind off of what we’re doing. Tell him you want to experiment with a new position or something. _Arouse_ something other than his suspicions!”

Not for the first time, Violet thought _I’d have better luck seducing Mycroft than Sherlock_ …

But then she remembered Molly and Greg’s wedding… out in the courtyard, when he was teaching her how to dance… not just any dance… a tango. How his usual stand-offish demeanor changed immediately. How he suddenly was in her personal space, but it wasn’t an intrusion… how the most unsentimental man in the world smoothed back a curl from her forehead… traced his fingertips down her neck, then back up to cup her face in his hands… how her heart raced… how she just _wanted_ him… wanted him to hold her closer… wanted to know what it would be like… if he would have just tilted his head down just so… and she if would have just tilted hers up just a bit so his lips could have reached hers…

… and how that little shit Victor Trevor had interrupted them.

She still, childishly, resented him for that.

And she had no idea how to re-create a moment like _that_.

Before Victor appeared from the shadows, there had been just something so sweet and pure about that moment. Yet another side of the enigmatic man she had been studying for nearly seven years now that she hadn’t known about. A side of himself he ruthlessly hid away from the world, hid away from even John’s eyes. But he had trusted her enough to reveal that part to her.

Violet had a list of the things she was not proud of, things she had done even before her English Exile began. Somehow, manipulating Sherlock emotionally and physically in the way Mary suggested… well, knowing what she knew about the man. How the Earl shattered his innocence and how Mycroft taught him to consider his heart an unnecessary appendage…

No. Violet was not going to add that kind of betrayal to her growing list of transgressions.

She was not Irene Adler, after all. Or Janine.

So out loud, she merely said in an even voice, “You know how he gets when he senses there’s a mystery to unravel. He turns into a robot. Sex will not distract him.”

‘Fair point,” Mary said, trying to plug in the memory stick to the tablet. Her hands were shaking.

“Mary,” Violet grabbed one of Mary’s trembling hands. “Are you alright? Truly?”

Mary felt the awful panic building within her again. There was a time where she really had been Sherlock’s emotional doppelganger. Callous, unfeeling, cold. Had to be, when one was an assassin… _but I’m not an assassin anymore. I’m a wife and a mother…_

She should have killed Wiggins on the spot after she had met him at the café for the exchange. After Violet had gotten the text from Wiggins that he had found something, she had arranged everything, including the meeting place. After being on the wrong side of the law for several years now, Violet had learned which pubs, cafés and coffee shops to frequent in order to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

It was the world’s most awkward dinner date ever. Wiggins had ordered fish and chips and Mary an iced coffee and an egg-and-mayonnaise sandwich with crisps. They tried to chat about run-of-the-mill things, boring old topics, nothing worth eavesdropping on.

But one could only talk about the weather for so long. Both ended up picking at their food, waiting for the waitress to come with the bill.

When, finally, mercifully the waitress had left the bill, Mary had thanked her and dug into her massive handbag. She pulled out her wallet and an envelope stuffed full of money. She held the envelope underneath the booth for Wiggins with one hand while placing her wallet and picking up the bill with her other.

“I’ve got this,” she had said as Wiggins deftly took the envelope full of money and gave Mary a memory stick in one slick move.

“Yeah you will,” Wiggins had given her a chilling look as he stuffed the envelope into his pocket. “Don’t call me no more, alright?” he had said as he got up the table but he had stopped to lean down towards Mary and whisper in her ear, “I know what y’did to Sherlock and not just the shooting neither. You fucking _cunt_.”

Mary had tightened her grip around the memory stick, “Whatever you have been told-”

“Is the bloody fucking truth and you know it. You set up a double-hit. You think that made you safe now, well, you ain’t,” Wiggins had continued whispering to Mary. “Dr. Watson will end it all with you once he realizes what you’ve did. He’ll Leave You. And he’ll keep the kid once you find it,” Wiggins straightened up. “So stay away from me, ‘K? I won’t say nothin’ to no one, but we’re quits, you and me,” then had left the café as quickly as he could without making a scene.

Ten years ago, Mary would have laughed at that threat. Then put a bullet in his head.

Now her hands shook and she tasted bile. But the fear wasn’t for herself, she knew, had always known, deep in her heart, that even though she had renounced her old vile ways, she still had a short expiration date.

The fear was for John and Maisie.

That she wouldn’t live long enough to see father and daughter reunited.

Or worse, they wouldn’t live long enough to be reunited.

Or even worse, this was all an exercise in futility, that Maisie was just a ghost after all.

But if she wasn’t a ghost, if Maisie still lived, Mary also feared Sherlock would butt in, which would be tantamount to waving  a scarlet cloth in front of a raging bull. Especially if Maisie had been kidnapped specifically to hurt Mary… John unfortunately, would have been considered merely collateral damage if that was the case. 

“Haven’t been sleeping well,” Mary admitted, patting Violet with her free hand. She gently disengaged her other hand from Violet’s and plugged in the memory stick into the tablet. “Let’s see if we got our money’s worth,” Mary said. Violet scooted closer to Mary to see the screen.

There were two video files on the stick. Mary opened the first one, the one labeled “CCTV.”

“Here we go,” Violet breathed as Mary hit ‘Play’.

Violet recognized Jennifer Boyle from her research. When she wasn’t digging into the Rucastles, ( _or Ford Holmes_ , her guilty conscience reminded her) she had been digging into the dearly departed Jenny’s life. She had discovered nothing extraordinary about her.

Violet and Mary huddled together in the darkened chapel, watching the grainy surveillance video. Jennifer Boyle stood, mixed in with several people, waiting for her turn to cross with the rest of the crowd…

Then her arms flailed wildly as she fell into the street.

Both women cringed when the Range Rover ran her over.

_At least my kills were always_ clean, Mary thought while saying, “How dreadful.”

“Mm,” Violet bit her lower lip. “Mary, play it again. Slowly this time please.” Mary complied and together they watched the horrifying death drawn out at a slower pace. “Again,” Violet said.

“How many times do we need to see this? There’s another video to watch yet.”

“As many times as necessary,” Violet said, putting her eyeglasses on the top of her head. “And slow the video down again.”

“Right,” Mary did what she was told.

“Hit stop when I tell you to.” Violet kept her eyes glued to the screen.

_This is why I asked for your help_ , Mary thought as she kept her finger hovered over the arrow on the screen, waiting for Violet’s command.

_FBI… she is FBI. CIA doesn’t investigate. They just…_ execute.

_So how did this_ American _woman end up with Sherloc-_

Violet interrupted Mary’s ruminations. “Stop.” 

Mary tapped the screen. The video froze.

“Look,” Violet touched the screen, then spread her pointer finger and thumb apart, making the image of poor Jenny falling to her certain death larger. “It’s not the best resolution, but look who’s behind her. Do you… do you recognize her?”

Mary studied the frozen image. Her heart immediately leapt into her throat.

Magnified, the picture became even grainier. Any barrister worth his salt could plant reasonable doubt into the minds of the jurors if this image was ever presented in a trial. 

However the picture maintained just enough of its integrity to make the woman pushing Jennifer Boyle recognizable.

“That’s… but that doesn’t make sense…” Mary said faintly while scrambling for an appropriate lie to tell Violet.

“No,” Violet Smith’s voice was ice. “It really doesn’t make sense for Mycroft Holmes’ assistant to be pushing that woman into traffic, does it now? Unless,” Violet glared at Mary over her fake spectacles, “There is something you’re not telling me.”

Mary sucked in a breath, her story ready now, once actually based in truth. “Yes.”

“Why?”

When Mary didn’t immediately answer the redheaded woman sighed and took off her glasses. Then Violet Hunter told Mary, “I can’t help you if you keep lying to me, Mary. Why does Mycroft hate you enough to kidnap your child?”

Mary slumped back into the pew. “So tonight’s the night where we come clean with each other?”

“As clean as two people like us possibly can,” Violet said grimly, her hazel eyes boring into Mary’s blue ones. “Start talking.” 

**

4 August 2015  
Somewhere along the Thames  
Tuesday night  
10:48 PM

While sitting in the back seat of the Town Car Mycroft had sent, Sherlock watched Anthea as she texted. He marveled at how quickly her thumbs sped over the keypad of her mobile.

Of course, only he knew she was only playing Scrabble. 

He yawned, already bored and annoyed with this charade. But it had to be done.

He also hadn’t wanted to leave John after dropping such a bombshell upon his best friend. Indeed “shell-shocked” would be the best word to describe John’s condition as Sherlock had pressed a glass of whisky into his hands.

John hadn’t said a word until he had downed the contents of the glass. Then he managed to stutter out, “Are you… are you sure?”

Sherlock had caught himself before saying something sarcastic. He had realized just in time that pointing out to John how ridiculous it was to ask _him_ a question like that was would be Not Good. Instead, he had merely muttered to John he did say he had Three Ideas and that his daughter was alive was the Third Idea. Then, after observing how John lost what color he had in his face, he had forced him to join him in the basement to help him with the malfunctioning air conditioner. Miraculously, they got the monstrous old thing to start producing cold air again.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said while wiping grease off his hands with a bit of cloth. “You should come with me tonight… bugger what Mycroft says, he knows I tell you… almost everything.”

But John had shook his head. “No… it’s OK Sherlock, I know what you’re trying to do. I’m OK. I just want to be alone a bit before Violet comes over and before I see my wife in the morning.” A shadow had crossed John’s face, a shadow that concerned Sherlock. “I need to process this.”

“John,” Sherlock had found himself a bit nervous. “Please, promise me one thing… let me speak to Violet first. Mary will lie until she’s blue in the face, especially if she believes her lies protect you …but Violet and I, we have an arrangement. We agreed it was pointless to lie to each other because I can deduce her and she can profile me. She hasn’t told me because I haven’t asked her directly. There might be a valid reason why they are not being honest with us.”

A muscle in John’s cheek had twitched, but he had nodded and said, “OK, I won’t confront either one of them until you talk to Violet.” He checked his watch. “You better get a move-on, mate. You’re covered with sweat and grime and Anthea’ll be here in an hour.”

Sherlock had taken John’s advice and had showered, shaved and dressed carefully in an immaculate coal-black suit and a crisp midnight blue shirt, fresh from the dry-cleaners. 

He looked Anthea over, made his usual swift deductions, and filed the observations away for later ( _Hmm… interesting…must research later to verify… could be very useful information indeed in the future…_ ). After mentally building a specific room for Anthea in his massive mind palace, he then stared out the car windows, his irritation returning. Of course it would have to be tonight that he had to play this farce with Mycroft when he should be with John.

He clearly observed how the chance (albeit a very slim one to be sure) of his daughter being alive had affected John. But how was Mary coping? Dealing with the possibility that her infant daughter had been stolen, ripped away from her and John as well as from all the people who had loved her before she was even born and hiding this all from John… _At least my son will be with his mother…_ Sherlock found himself thinking.

Then sternly told himself, _Not_ my _son. Lestrade’s son._

He could not afford to be having sentimental thoughts about his own child before meeting with The British Government.

He wished he could reschedule. John _needed_ him.

But so did Violet. Sherlock reminded himself if he didn’t complete this chore tonight, if he didn’t find out exactly what MI-6 wanted from Violet, he would not be able to keep her safe for much longer either.

But the idea of John suffering alone was unendurable.

However losing Violet was unacceptable… especially at the hands of his apathetic brother. 

He closed his eyes, feeling very spread thin indeed.

He wanted a cigarette…

No, he wanted to be _high_ …the _good_ high… the heroin high.

He crossed his arms over his waist. _Delete… delete… delete…_

The Town Car came to a stop. Sherlock, seeing that he was now in an abandoned shipyard ( _Booooooooooooooooorrring…….._ ) reached for the car door handle. 

“Demythologizers,” he said to Anthea as he opened the door.”

“Sorry?” Anthea didn’t even lift her eyes up from her mobile.

“Y and Z on Double Letter Score, and also on three Triple Word Score square, so 1,296 points I believe. Oh… and bonus 50 points for using all seven tiles in one turn… so that brings the total up to 1682 points, yes?”

Now Anthea finally looked up from her mobile, stared at him open-mouthed.

“Ta,” Sherlock said with a wink her and made his usual dramatic exit.

The shipyard was not completely dark. There were a few lights still working. So Sherlock could see the handsome man in his early thirties waiting for him. “Mr. Holmes?” he asked.

“Obviously,” Sherlock droned.

“I’m Eduardo Lucas,” he took out a small torch from his suit jacket. Switching it on, he needlessly added, “Follow me please.”

“Oh, are MI-6 agents in the habit of introducing themselves now?” Sherlock sneered as he followed the young man towards a large, looming building.

“No,” the young said politely, staying one foot ahead of Sherlock. “But I’m not with MI-6,”

Sherlock felt his stomach drop to his knees. _Her Majesty’s Royal Secret Service…._ He groaned to himself. They were a bit more arrogant and a lot more trigger happy than MI-6.

He caught up with the young man in two long-legged steps and quickly scanned him. He concluded that while the young man was armed ( _side arm, ankle-holster…_ ) that he was not being led to his untimely demise. His stay of execution remained in place… for now.

But this also meant that, as Violet Hunter would have charmingly put it, had she been present “The shit’s rolling downhill.” _American slang is very expressive sometimes.**_ Sherlock thought as he and Lucas walked into the desolate building, where dreams and ships had been made.  

The Queen herself may even be figuratively putting the thumbscrews to Mycroft now.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Sherlock favored the dissolution of the monarchy… mostly because he couldn’t be arsed to keep track of them all. He had been genuinely surprised when John told him that they didn’t have a King.

Mycroft stood in the middle of the darkened old building, leaning on his umbrella. Even by the dim light, Sherlock could tell his elder brother had dressed for the occasion, a three-piece suit complete with a tie, despite the sweltering heat. As he got closer however, Sherlock perceived Mycroft’s suit was made from a nice cotton-linen blend, in deference to what the meteorologists had started calling “The Great Drought of 2015.”

Sherlock made a mental note to ask his tailor to whip up some suits out of the same fabric for him before acidly calling out to his brother, “And you say I have a weakness for the dramatic.”

“Thank you, Lucas, that will be all,” Mycroft said urbanely to the young man.

Lucas receded into the shadows. Mycroft twirled his umbrella as he stepped closer to Sherlock. “I have a bigger problem than you or Agent Hunter or even Moriarty’s ghost.”

“Oh?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. This was the first interesting thing Mycroft had said to him in months, possibly years.

“There’s a mole in MI-6.”

“Ahhhh….” Sherlock breathed. “Hence your escort from the non-existent Her Majesty’s Royal Secret Service.” 

“Precisely,” Mycroft seethed. “What makes this even more challenging not to mention much more irritating is that the mole may have even infiltrated the non-existent HMRSS as well.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock drummed his fingers on his lips. “Truly, Big Brother, it is. But, as you very well know, my dance card is quite filled up at the moment.”

“Sherlock, this affects you,” Mycroft stopped twirling his umbrella like Charlie Chaplin’s ‘Little Tramp’ and tightened his grip on it. “You and all of your…” he sniffed. “’Baker Street Irregulars’, as you call yourselves, John, Violet, your Homeless Network, the newlywed Lestrades, even your dear old housekeeper Mrs. Hudson.”

“Not the housekeeper,” Sherlock immediately corrected.

Mycroft ignored him. “As much as it pains me to admit you were right, the only way we had been able to defeat _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ was  after you slipped your handlers in France and went off the grid for two years after your ‘suicide’.”

“Told you so,” Sherlock gleefully gloated.

“Are you quite finished?”

“Oh no. I’m going to rub your nose in this for years and years.”

Mycroft refrained from beating Sherlock about the head and shoulders with his umbrella.

Why does he insist on always being such a… _brat_?

“Well, now that you’re back in the land of the living, the mole has resumed informing the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ about every move and countermove we make. Did it ever cross your mind-”

“Probably,” Sherlock interrupted blithely.

Mycroft reminded himself he could _not_ hit his baby brother. He could almost hear their mother in his ears _Mikey, that’s not nice!_ He steeled himself and continued, “That you didn’t find Jim Moriarty in Inverness because he had been tipped off and scurried away before you, the American and the Watsons crossed into Scotland?”

“It wasn’t a completely wasted trip,” Sherlock countered. “We solved two cold cases and stopped a serial killer.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Mycroft said impatiently. “Bully for you. Sherlock, your priority is no longer hunting Moriarty. It’s finding the MI-6 mole. Without their contact, we believe-”

“Moriarty will come into the light,” Sherlock nodded. “Very well, I’ll need a roster of everyone employed at MI-6, oh I do not require a physical copy to keep,” he rolled his eyes when Mycroft hesitated. He tapped his forehead. “I’ll create a room in my mind palace for the names.”

“Stop by the club tomorrow,” Mycroft gave him then gave him a cool little smile. “Two devoted brothers sharing a spot of tea.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock forced himself to sound wounded. “I said I would help you. I said we were on the same side now.” 

“Indeed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t question your intentions.”

“Of course not. You’d be an idiot if you didn’t. But I do have a question for you. If there is a mole in MI-6, how I am supposed to extract whatever it is MI-6 thinks Agent Hunter has from her then deliver that intelligence securely to you?”

Mycroft’s lips became very thin. “You don’t. Agent Hunter gets a figurative stay of execution, so to speak. I have even unfrozen her bank accounts,” he added magnanimously.

Sherlock hid his delight. “How long does Violet have then? To stay in England?”

_To stay with_ me.

But now Mycroft’s smile became cruel. “As long as it takes you to root out the mole, so I wouldn’t suggest delaying the process just to keep your _friend_ here. Find the mole, then get the information from Agent Hunter, then we finish Moriarty. I will keep you posted. Time is of the essence, Sherlock. The _Rouge_ is rebuilding. The Paris cell is already operational.”

“What? _How_?” Sherlock exploded; furious that  two years of work was now basically in the bin.

“The mole notified the head of the _Rouge_ of the raids in London last April. Yes, we got loads of information and all the little children were saved, but the money was gone. All of it, millions of pounds, was wired to an offshore account. Those funds were used to rebuild the Paris cell.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he could _hit_ something.

“Yes, Little Brother, I know,” Mycroft’s voice softened. “It’s infuriating.”

“What time are we meeting tomorrow?” Sherlock ran his hand over his mouth, longing for a cigarette now.

“Noon,” Mycroft said silkily. “Oh, Sherlock, one more thing?”

_Here it comes_ , Sherlock’s mood soured even more. “Yes, what terrible thing are you going to tell me about Victor Trevor now?”

“He’s unemployed,” Mycroft informed him. “He’s living off of his dwindling trust fund and his in-laws’ charity. Also, he didn’t quit his job in New York, he was sacked.”

“I haven’t spoken to Victor since I took the Rucastle case,” Sherlock snapped.

“Keep it that way,” Mycroft turned his back and walked away from his brother. But he called to him over his shoulder, “You may think he loved you, but I assure you it wasn’t real. It was your money he lusted for, not you.”

**

5 August 2015  
The Watsons’ residence  
Wednesday morning  
1:48 AM

John had just made himself lay down on his bed when he heard Gladstone bark downstairs.

Silently he reached for his gun he had put on the nightstand and un-safetied it.

Quietly, nimbly, he tiptoed through the narrow hallway and just about started going down the stairs when he heard Violet say “Stone, shhh… _Stille, stille._ ”

John blew out a breath and crept back into his bedroom, putting the safety back on the gun. If she had indeed been with Mary, his wife probably gave Violet a key to the house.

John stood in the middle of his bedroom, rubbing his neck. He felt the anger building in him now. What gave those two the right to decide whether or not to tell him that there was a chance, the slightest bit of a chance that Maisie was alive?

She was _his_ daughter too.

He paced. He knew he promised Sherlock to wait, to let him interrogate Violet… but…

John couldn’t stand it. He turned and headed back downstairs, not quietly this time.

Once he was at the foot of the stairs, he said sharply, “Violet I need to talk…” but the words died on John’s lips when he saw Violet.

She sat on his sofa, looking slightly green. Gladstone sat next to her, his furry body pressed close to hers, as if he was either protecting her or comforting her. Or both.

She had been staring at her hands but when John said her name, her head snapped up. Her hazel eyes were huge, full of panic. “John…” her voice cracked piteously as she held both her hands out to him as if in supplication.

Both hands shook now.

“They won’t stop,” she whispered as real tears filled her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's remark about American slang came from here: 
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.
> 
> Thank you all for reading/commenting/leaving kudos :^)


	13. Chemical Defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When people say love, they really mean romance. But to say ‘I romance you’ is awkward. Romance is alive and it is a monster. It clouds the mind, it poisons you. It’s a hallucinogen, it makes you see things that aren’t real, but it’s so much worse because it’s socially acceptable to get high on this drug of love… I personally think it’s some sort of chemical defect..."
> 
> Sherlock is not having a great night. The day that follows isn't so wonderful either...

Chapter Thirteen: Chemical Defect

5 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Wednesday morning  
2:08 AM

While John, his rage temporarily forgotten, knelt in front of Violet, trying to determine what caused her shaking hands, Sherlock paced back and forth in his now-cool flat.

Every time he tried to focus on pressing matters: the mole, Violet’s safety, John Watson’s wife and daughter, Moriarty, his mind stubbornly and resolutely circled back to Victor, Victor, Victor.

_Damn you Mycroft,_ he seethed as he plopped into “his” chair and drew his knees up to his chest. Encircling his arms around his legs, he rested his forehead on his knees.

Between his recent bout of illness and being busy with the Rucastles and the Burned Girls cases, he had actually forgotten about Victor… _which was the entire point_ , of course.

Well… he hadn’t completely forgotten about Victor, of course.

Just like he never really forgot about Irene Adler.

Some people are just indelible.

As much as he had worried about John being on his own after learning Mary and Violet were searching for his daughter, Sherlock felt profoundly glad to be alone with his thoughts… his… _feelings_ … stupid bloody interfering feelings….

Mycroft’s parting shot echoed in his head… _You may think he loved you, but I assure you it wasn’t real. It was your money he lusted for, not you…_

_Wrong… it was real. It was, it was… wasn’t it?_

Yes… he was almost reverently glad he was alone. They might have said or done something that would have rendered him undone. He wanted to fight the threatening tears, not to give in, not to be weak and sentimental. If either one of them would have been at 221B now… all John would have had to do was to say was his name… and all Violet needed to do was card her fingers through his hair like she did when she knew he was upset…  and he would have fallen apart. To fall to bits was completely and utterly unacceptable so he felt bitterly grateful to be alone as he tried to suppress the hurt so he could _think_.

But as hard as he tried to discipline his mind, two traitorous thoughts keep disrupting the entire process…  _Why didn’t you just stay in New York…?_

And…

_After all… you left_ me _._

**

26 August 2007  
Camden Town  
Sunday morning  
1:27 AM

Never in his entire life had Victor been more grateful for peace and quiet than he was right now.

He turned the key in the doorknob and let himself into his little flat, a small but modern loft above a jazz bar. Fortunately, the flat was very well insulated so the only times Victor heard music from the bar was when he opened the windows in the spring and summer.

Tossing the keys into a glass dish sitting in the metal bookcase next to the door, he didn’t even bother turning on the lights. He felt the beginnings of what promised to be a dreadful headache.

And he hadn’t drank very much tonight.

He couldn’t afford to, he had to navigate very treacherous waters. Placating his dour and rigid family while reassuring his fiancée that yes, his parents did indeed like her parents and the rest of her family. All this on top of entertaining all their friends.

_The engagement party was a success, I suppose_ , he decided as he kicked off his shoes. Not too stuffy as to turn off Pats’ light-hearted and fun-loving family, but not too libertine as to upset his traditionalist family. His parents and two uncles (who were both vicars) had also left early, shortly after dinner, which helped lighten the atmosphere. Unfortunately most of his cousins had stayed (all die-hard Tories) but once they got to drinking, they forgot their religious and political leanings and started telling embarrassing stories about Victor when he was young (“We used to call him Vicky!”). Then they started chatting up girls and all was well.

And his sisters, all three of them, came down from the North, with their husbands, sans children. They weren’t exactly free-spirits, but they were always good for a laugh and not nearly as narrowed-minded as Mum and Dad.

All his uni friends had come and even some of his old primary and prep school friends. Yes, everyone important had been present and accounted for and having a great time…

Except… Sherlock hadn’t come.

“Stupid…” he said to himself, picking up his shoes and socks. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t have come. Even if he wasn’t in that precarious stage right after rehab, re-entering the world after being locked away from temptation for over a month, he still wouldn’t have come. Sherlock didn’t do well in social situations. Especially sober. God knows what could have come out of his mouth. It was a blessing really… his parents and uncles hated Sherlock, naturally. Most of his friends didn’t like him either. Didn’t hate him, just felt extremely uncomfortable around him…

“It’s his eyes, mate,” his old uni mate Sebastian Wilkes had explained once. “The way they’re not blue, not green and how he just… looks through you. Like he’s reading your mind or looking into your soul. Then he spits out exactly what you’re thinking, who you’re fucking and what you had for breakfast that morning. It’s bloody creepy.”

So, really, it was alright that Sherlock didn’t come. Especially since Patricia and her entire family thought he was straight and his family thought they had successfully prayed away the gay.

“Fuck,” Victor sighed, looking around his flat. He loved his flat, filled with eclectic pieces of art and comfortable leather furniture. A hardwood floor he had stripped and finished himself. A really nice telly, one of the newer flat-screens, sat on top of another metal bookcase matching the one near the front door. This shelf however was filled with old leather books as well as DVDs of all movies he loved, from the pretentious snotty films to the shoot-‘em-up-kill-‘em-all flicks.

Everything smelled like leather, lemons and wood oil. He had a great view of Camden, all the brightly colored shops and all the people, the locals and the tourists.

He also loved living alone.

He supposed he should enjoy it while he could. Patricia had hinted she would like to move in with him before the wedding, but Victor put her off. Told her his parents would be scandalized and would make life difficult for both of them.

He just wanted to be alone for a bit longer. To be… _himself_ … for a bit longer.

He debated whether or not to fix himself a drink then decided he just wanted to go to bed.

He took the two steps it took to go from the main room to his bedroom and turned on the lights.

And dropped his shoes and socks in utter astonishment.

Sherlock was stretched out in his bed, nursing a whisky.

Granted, he was fully dressed. He had a new affectation of wearing a dress shirt and a suit all the time these days. He looked good too, dressed up like that…

But…

“What the hell?” Victor asked.

“You don’t love her,” Sherlock swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

“How did you get in?”  When Sherlock lifted his eyes up at Victor as if to say _Oh please…_  Victor said “Right, right, I know, I know,” he leaned against the doorjamb.

“You don’t love her,” Sherlock repeated, as if telling the time to someone who didn’t hear him the first time.

“Sherlock, I’m very tired,” Victor crossed his arms. “Can we discuss this in the morning?”

“You. Don’t. Love. Her.”

_Oh fuck me, he’s in One of Those Moods_ , Victor realized. “I’m not like you, alright?” he bent down to pick up his shoes and socks. “I’ve reconciled with my family, for the most part. I’ve made my peace with them. I don’t see them as just a giant ATM machine anymore.”

“That’s a redundancy. The M stands for machine.”

“Whatever,” Victor grumbled. “I need my family in my life. You can choose to hate yours all you want and for good reason, but I want my family in my life.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said.

Victor steeled himself. He knew when Sherlock was about to deliver one of his nasty home-truths… his _deductions_ as he called them.

But Sherlock didn’t deliver a deduction based on a current observation.

He dredged up an ugly memory instead.  “Your father beat the hell out of you when he caught us snogging at their house that one Easter you took me home.”

“That’s ancient histo-”

“He broke your arm,” Sherlock reminded him coldly. “He gave me a concussion. You were in hospital for nearly two weeks. You lived with Mycroft and me  in his flat in London that summer because your father had disowned you, forbade your mother or sisters to contact you. And like the cowards they all are, they obeyed. Until you repented, or rather, lied and put yourself more or less permanently in the closet. Explain to me how you need someone like that in your life?”

“Dad’s old-fashioned, he doesn’t understa-”

“My father is the same age as your father and he never once laid a finger on me or judged me for being different.”

“No, he just turned a blind eye while you were being raped under his own roof,” Victor spat, then immediately regretted it. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. Please…”

“He didn’t know,” Sherlock’s voice dropped a few degrees more. ”We’ve been over that. He. Didn’t . Know. Your father knew perfectly well what he did to you and is still doing to you. He is a bully and will continue to bully you until either he dies or you finally stand up to him.”

“I can’t.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not? It’s the twenty-first century! Did you know that some of the states in America have legalized gay marriage? It’s not a crime anymore, Victor, at least not in civilized countries.”

“Are you calling America civilized?” Victor smiled wanly, leaning against the doorjamb again. “And are you saying you want to get married?”

Sherlock hesitated. “No, of course not,” he said, draining his drink, getting off of Victor’s bed. “But neither do you,” he put his glass on Victor’s chest of drawers.

“How do you know? I haven’t seen you in _months_. Had to hear from fucking _Mycroft_ you were back in rehab again. He made a point to tell me after delivering a dire warning how I’m supposed to stay away from you once you’re out blah blah, you know, the usual.”

Sherlock bristled, his nostrils flaring. “Mycroft does not dictate the terms of my life and who I share it with.” He stood in front of Victor now. “I know you don’t want to marry her. I know it’s all an act to placate your parents so they don’t disown you as they had in the past. You don’t know how to exist without money. You’re afraid of being cut off financially again. You’re accustomed to a certain lifestyle so even thoughyou make a nice living as a real estate agent; you don’t make _good_ money, the type that would maintain the standards at which you live. So you found a pretty little blonde debutante in her pretty pink dress and her pretty rosy-pink wedding dreams with more wealth than even your parents possess. Your future is assured, as long as you continue to pretend you desire women instead of men, of course.”

“What a perfectly horrible thing to say, Sherlock. But of course you would say something horrible… hang on,” Victor frowned. “How did you know Patricia is blonde? You’ve never… met… her… Sherlock…?”

_Her pretty pink sundress….?_

He felt his breath catch. “Were… were you at the party tonight?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said baldly. “Patricia wore a bright pink dress tonight with white sandals. She has her hair cut short, like a boy and had her nails done to match her dress, the toes and fingers. She wore a dress with a skirt just long enough to hide the tattoo on her upper leg from your stuffy prejudiced parents. A dolphin, I think it was.”

“How did you know she has a dolphin tattoo?”

Sherlock ignored Victor, in full flight now: “She also has a boyish figure as well, tall, hardly any breasts, which makes her physique tolerable to you for the time-being, until she puts weight on of course, and she will, because she will have no need to stay slim after the wedding. She had caught her fish, no need to bait the hook anymore, so to speak. Her mother and grandmother are quite big around the hips so in due time, she will acquire an hourglass figure, wider on the bottom than the top, more like a pear, but anyway, ancestry dictates she will eventually look like a woman instead of a girlish boy. She utterly adores you because you are a perfect gentleman. She doesn’t realize your gentlemanliness is due to your absolute sexual revulsion to the fairer sex. Makes me wonder what cover story you will concoct in case she finds those little blue pills you take before you take her to bed.”

“How in the blazing hell did you know… you went through my medicine cabinet while you waited,” Victor groaned, “Didn’t you?”

“Don’t worry. Patricia will never find them, not that your hiding spot is all together clever, but she’s simply not that bright.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Victor snapped. “She’s a good person, a _nice_ person.”

“Sickeningly nice,” Sherlock drawled. “Everything is lovely, everyone is kind. Everything is sunshine and rainbows. How nice do you think she will be when she finds out you prefer men to her? She may be nice but rest assured her attorney is not and is drawing up the prenuptial contracts as we speak. Undoubtedly there will be a cheating clause in those papers.”

“Patricia said she didn’t want a pre-nup,” Victor said warily. “How do you know? And why didn’t I see you?”

“Her attorney was at the party, yes? If you hadn’t been so offended by  how he was clicking away on his Blackberry instead of socializing you would have _observed_ that he chose to wear his bright red tie, his power tie he wears to meet clients. If you had been paying attention you would have reached the same conclusion. If you had entertained the fantasy of an open marriage or an amicable divorce, think again my dear Victor.”

“Why didn’t I see you tonight?” Victor demanded. “Where were you hiding?”

“You chose not to see me,” Sherlock said. “I know what your family thinks of me. ‘Worthless junkie fag’, I believe is how your father and uncles refer to me as, yes?”

“That’s not how I see you,” Victor took a step closer to Sherlock.

“I walked past you twice,” Sherlock told him. “I knew if I came as myself, I’d be chucked out. So I dressed like a waiter. I walked past you _twice_. I even handed you a glass of water because I knew you would be too nervous to imbibe tonight.” His eyes lowered. “You didn’t even notice, didn’t even see it was me.”

_There it is_ , Victor thought, shame sitting heavy in his gut, like a bad, cheap meal. The crack. The frisson. The chink in the armor, the intellect and reason with which he shielded his heart .

“Oh Sherlock, I am sorry,” he said honestly, reaching for him. But Sherlock brushed him off, tried to push past him through the door, but Victor grabbed him by the arms, held him still. “Now, hang on, wait. Listen. I’m sorry, OK? Here I was looking for you the entire time, and you were right in front of me.”

He looked away again, looked at the floor, then the ceiling then just simply closed his eyes.

“You don’t love her,” he repeated, sounding more desperate than cold.

“I know, but what… Sherlock,” Victor said as Sherlock shrugged him off again, turning his back on him since he had no other means of escape. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“We could leave,” Sherlock’s voice was very small, very vulnerable.

_It has been months, almost a year since I heard that Tone of Voice_ , Victor realized. _But he’s slipping away, I can feel it. He’s becoming more and more machinelike. He always was a bit of a cunt after rehab, did it on purpose to avoid temptation, to scare off his old dealers and junkie-buddies and to rationalize staying clean… but it’s becoming more and more of a way of a life than a coping mechanism… but I can’t pull him back, either… it’s not my responsibility to pull him back, I have my own sobriety to maintain… but I can’t bear to see him turn into that… cold-hearted bastard he was a few minutes ago either._

_There is so much more to him than  his genius. Why am I the only one to see that?_

“Where would we go Sherlock?” he walked up behind him. Victor was slightly taller than Sherlock so it was easy for him to loop one arm around Sherlock’s waist and drape the other over his chest. He leaned his cheek against Sherlock’s. “Hm? Where could we go?”

“Anywhere, everywhere,” Sherlock leaned into him, “Like we did before.”

“And you were miserable,” Victor reminded him. “Homesick you were, like a boy at his first summer camp. You live and breathe London, Sherlock. I can’t imagine you leaving London for anyone ever again. Plus,” he added lightly, “I really don’t fancy trekking through Europe with all my worldly goods on my back in a rucksack, do you? We’re not exactly in our twenties anymore now are we?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. Victor could feel his shoulders drooping as he said, “No, that was a stupid idea… but we could make a plan, we could still leave, we could…”

“No, we can’t. I can’t.”   
  
“Give me one good reason why not?”

“Because I’m not like you, you were always the brave one. Not me.”

“When I said a _good_ reason, I meant a _logical_ reason.”

“Sherlock,” Victor said quietly but firmly. “I’m sorry this hurts you… but I’m marrying Patricia.”

“You’ll regret it,” Sherlock said. “She’ll figure it out eventually  that you do not love her and she’ll resent you. But she’ll never give you a divorce. That will be her revenge. And I…” Sherlock folded his lips tight.

Victor waited. He had known this difficult, luminous man for well over ten years now. Better to let him take his time when things got a bit emotional.

But whatever he going to say, he must have changed his mind because instead he asked, “Tell me one thing Patricia can give you that I can’t.”

_This is going to kill him,_ Victor thought but he said it anyway: “Children.”

A soft, shuddering breath… then an even softer, “Oh…”

“It’s the old argument again, isn’t it? I want kids, you don’t. And even if you came around to my way of thinking… well, nobody in their right mind is going to give a baby to two recovering addicts, are they?”

“No,” Sherlock lowered his head again. “And I don’t want children. But that’s not a good enough reason to get married. To throw your life away for someone you don’t love.”

“How would you know?” Victor couldn’t help himself. “In the entire time you and I have known each other you have never once told me you loved me.”

“In case you ever wondered how you get outed, Victor, it’s when you say things like that.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“So am I.”

Not once did Victor let Sherlock go while they had been talking. He was too afraid to let go, wasn’t sure what this madman would run off and do… he was still in that shaky stage after rehab after all. Reintroduction to the world and all that… “Ah, come on. Don’t be like that,” Victor tightened his embrace around Sherlock just a bit, “Just taking the piss out of you.”

“No you weren’t,” the Most Observant Man in the World retorted. “And, for the record, I never said it because the word ‘love’ itself has been trivialized to the point where it is only the faintest greyest shadow of its original meaning. Love, love, love, I love this shirt, I love this biscuit, I love this song. The word itself means nothing now. A mother feeds and cares for her child and calls it _love_ when it’s really just most primal of instincts possessed by most female mammals…”

“When most people say they love someone else, what they truly mean is they find someone attractive and compatible and want exclusive rights to consensual sex. Those qualities, looks, personality, sex, those things don’t exactly withstand the test of time. And one person is usually completely overwhelmed with desire and infatuation for another and that one person always ends up on the losing end when they realize whom they want doesn’t want them as much.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

“But it’s not Victor, that’s my point. When people say love, they really mean romance. But to say ‘I romance you’ is awkward. Romance is alive and it is a monster. It clouds the mind, it poisons you. It’s a hallucinogen, it makes you see things that aren’t real, but it’s so much worse because it’s socially acceptable to get high on this drug of _love_ … I personally think it’s some sort of chemical defect. Look at your fiancée. If her head wasn’t in the clouds, picking out her wedding colors, planning the reception, she’d see you for who you really are.”

“So love makes you stupid?”

“Yes, _finally_ you understand!”

“Not really,” Victor sighed, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s chest. “You do know that love and romance are different, right?” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s throat.

“Um…” Sherlock lost his train of thought for a moment, but picked it back up quite quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course, but that’s irrelevant. I never say love because people don’t realize love and romance _are_ different. In this world, love and romance are one in the same. Romance has killed love, Victor. It’s all so very romantic that you are getting married, for example, to that good, nice girl. But you don’t love her. And yet, you’ll tell her you love her. You’ll vow to love her until death do you part… and you expect me to repeat those exact hollow words back to you? I won’t say what you want to hear because it’s just _words_.”

“You’ve made your point, I get it. Actions speak louder than words. Just… stop talking now,” Victor said, grazing his lips against Sherlock’s ear. In a low, gravelly voice, he said, “I’m not married yet, you know.” He felt Sherlock’s body relax into his. He reached around and tugged on Sherlock’s suit jacket, pulling it off of him and letting it drop to the floor. “Turn around and _show_ me then, if you won’t tell me.”

Sherlock slowly turned to face Victor, standing as close to him as possible. “I just asked you to leave with me,” his voice, his face, his body, everything was as tense as a tightly wound violin string, “What more can I show you that will convince you?”

Victor shook his head as he started undoing Sherlock’s shirt buttons. Even after all this time, most double entendres and innuendos still flew over the man’s head. “Just… stop talking.”

“But-”

Victor kissed him fiercely. “I said stop _talking_ ,” he clasped Sherlock’s face with both of his hands. Then kissed him, again and again, pushing him towards the bed.

But because he was Sherlock Holmes, he still had to have the last word.

Afterwards, as they lay side-by-side, skin-to-skin, as Victor drifted towards sleep, he distinctly heard Sherlock say in a thick voice, “You say you love me but you’re going to leave me anyway.”

He curled himself around the love of his life. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He felt Sherlock grasp for his hand. He let him take it and let him twine his long slender fingers with his own. He then heard Sherlock say, very faintly, “Liar.”

Victor let Sherlock have the last word.

**

5 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Wednesday morning  
6:35 AM

The vibration from his mobile woke him up.

Sherlock jerked awake then winced, feeling the crick in his neck and the twinge in his back. He had dozed off, fully dressed, in his chair.

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, he pulled the mobile out of his trouser pocket.

A text from the strong yet silent Sergeant “Call Me Alex” MacDonald:

Found something – AMcD

Even her texts were succinct.

Sherlock looked at his watch and groaned. He usually never rose before ten in the morning if he could help it. But he knew he wasn’t going to be going back to sleep now. So he texted Alex to let her know he would meet her at Scotland Yard at eight-thirty to discuss her findings.

That should give him enough time to shower, shave and have a cup of tea before departing.

He yawned, stretched, toed off his shoes and picked them up. As he walked towards his bedroom, his mobile hummed again.

He looked and felt his heart stop.

_Molly_. 

Hi, it’s me.   
Took a peek at B. Girls like you asked.   
I found something Dr. B missed.   
Can you meet me today? – ML xx

He hadn’t seen Molly Hooper… Molly _Lestrade_ since the wedding.

_Well, let’s just make today completely awful, shall we?_ Sherlock decided as he texted Molly he would come by the mortuary in the afternoon. 

Following a night plagued by dreams of his ex, and a lunch date with his foul older brother, why not end the day with the mother of his unborn son who had informed him she wanted him to have nothing to do with the child?

The crooks of Sherlock’s elbows itched as he fantasized about the needle.

But he took his methadone pills, stripped and got into the shower instead.

**

5 August 2015  
Jepthro Rucastle’s Residence  
Wednesday morning  
9:02 AM

Violet was on her third cup of coffee.

The caffeine made her jittery and the exhaustion made her feel foggy.

Even though Violet was supposed to take little Edward out for his “Morning Constitution”, Violet informed Mrs. Toller during breakfast it was already far too hot to take a little boy and a little dog out for a walk. Much better to stay indoors today.

Mrs. Toller had only sniffed, “You’re the tutor. You’re the expert in child care and education.”

Violet had wondered if Mrs. Toller had sprayed on more _White Diamonds_ perfume to spite her. 

So Violet pulled out the drawing paper and crayons again and told Edward to go ahead and color until it was time for maths. She curled up in the white rocking chair again, feeling her stomach roil from what she assumed was lack of sleep… what she had hoped was lack of sleep… what she prayed was lack of sleep…

Even though Edward was far too old for Nap Time… Violet was going to take advantage of it and take one herself today. 

She rubbed her temple with her free hand, feeling a headache starting to build up now, as she recalled John kneeling in front of her, taking her shaking hands in his steady ones…

“Violet,” he had said, his face creased with concern after he had checked her pupils with his little penlight. “This could be psychosomatic…. But it could be neurological.”

“Oh God,” her voice had shaken  as badly as her hands.

John had then held her hands tightly in his and said “Violet, try and remember, last spring. Do you remember at any time hitting your head?”

“When? The motorcycle accident? No, that was a controlled crash and I was wearing a helmet.”

“Not just then. All the mishaps you’ve been in since we’ve met. The explosion at your old flat, falling off the Millennium Bridge into the Thames-”

“I was pushed.”

John had grinned then reached up to tilt her face so he could look at the scar on her right cheek. “Jack Woodley also beat the hell out of you, hit you in the face. I should have had a scan done after I stitched you up, but you weren’t showing any signs of a concussion.”

“I don’t remember hitting my head,” Violet had said hollowly.

“OK,” John said somberly but then reached down and held both her hands again. “You’ve got to get this checked out Violet, right away. This could be serious.”

Violet had nodded. John then had told her to try and get some sleep then studied her face for a bit, looking… well, a little sad, truth be told. Then he had bent down and kissed her temple and told her he’d wake her with time in the morning to get ready to go to the Rucastles’ and not to  worry about Gladstone, he’d deliver him back to Baker Street later today.

Violet, of course, hadn’t slept. She had given up on the idea an hour or so after John had gone to bed. She had turned the television on, put closed captioning on so she wouldn’t disturb John and watched an old science-fiction film from the Fifties. Gladstone had curled up next to her, his big furry head in her lap…

… and of course, Mary was nowhere to be found.

Despite their heart-to-heart, Violet still felt apprehensive about Mary, still felt like Mary wasn’t telling her the full truth.

Mary had admitted Mycroft did indeed hate her and yes, she had quite the checkered past. She had told Violet her father had been Russian, but her mother had been American and when she had gotten older, she had… taken advantage of her unusual heritage, gone to work at the KGB  as a spy, (even though it technically the KGB  wasn’t supposed to exist anymore, just like how the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ and Her Majesty’s Royal Secret Service wasn’t supposed to exist.)

But she told Violet how she had also freelanced for the CIA and MI-6 when everything went topsy-turvy in Mother Russia… then when things truly went to shit in Russia, she had faked her death, assumed the ‘Mary Morstan’ identity and had lived quietly in London for years… until she met John Watson, of course.

But when Violet pressed her about why exactly Mycroft hated her, Mary had hedged. Then had said, “He blames me for Sherlock’s shooting. Mycroft found out that Magnussen was blackmailing me about my past. He thinks it’s my fault Sherlock and John went to Appledore to retrieve the blackmail material.” When Violet had frowned, the disbelief showing plainly on her face, Mary had looked away and said, “And it’s true, it is my fault. I… I asked Sherlock to help me, to help me reconcile with John and help clean my slate, if you will. But I was just like everyone else. I didn’t know there wasn’t any physical evidence. I didn’t know he bloody memorized _everything_. Killing Magnussen was the only way of keeping my past in the past. Sherlock knew it. And Mycroft knew it, which is why he blamed me for Sherlock’s arrest and near-exile for killing Magnussen as well as committing treason, for when he stole Mycroft’s laptop. You see… if it had just been murder, Sherlock would have gotten a life-sentence. But he stole Mycroft’s computer, a computer containing government secrets. That’s treason and he would have faced the firing squad, even though technically we don’t have capital punishment in England,” Mary had snorted in disgust, then squared her shoulders and soldiered on. . “So if Sherlock doesn’t find Moriarty soon, they may decide to execute him for treason anyway. Or, worse, if he does find Moriarty, MI-6 might decide they don’t need Sherlock anymore and get rid of him anyway. If I hadn’t been pregnant when that was all happening, I’m certain Mycroft would have found a way to make me quietly disappear. But since he couldn’t kill me, he took Maisie away from me instead.”

Violet had let it go by that point. She knew Mary still wasn’t telling her the full truth. But it was getting late plus there was still one more video yet to watch.

Plus, she didn’t want Mary to start prying into _her_ past. Violet had dropped the fake accent as a sign of good faith. But it really wasn’t much of a sign since Mary had _deduced_ she wasn’t British a long time ago. So she had merely nodded, made a show to look at her pretty gold wristwatch and then suggest it was getting late, they better watch the other video.

Wiggins had come up trumps. The video was the lost hospital surveillance of an ambulance idling outside the hospital. It showed two people, clad in scrubs, pushing a cart out, an incubator with an infant inside of it. 

Mary’s eyes had welled up as she touched the screen as her daughter was loaded into the ambulance. Then she had covered her mouth as she began to cry in earnest.

Violet had felt her eyes prickle as well. Maybe Mary had fed her a “load of codswallop” about why Mycroft really hated her, but her pain and her love for that tiny child, as well as for John, was for real. So Violet had put her arm around Mary’s shoulder and told her, “We’re going to find her, we _will_ find her. I promise.”

Mary had nodded, muttered that she needed to leave and bolted from the chapel.

Violet had pressed her hands to her forehead, not sure what to do next. In the end, she had slipped out of the hospital and hailed a black cab.

And her hands had started shaking uncontrollably on her way to John’s house.

They finally stopped after the stupid black-and-white sci-fi movie ended… at four in the morning.

Now Violet sipped her coffee, watching Edward color.

_Then there’s this little shit_ , Violet thought, her face neutral as she studied Edward.

She glanced at her bandaged hand. It didn’t hurt anymore, but the fact he had bitten her still unnerved her. Simply put, he was too old to be biting when he felt threatened or when he didn’t get his way. She wished she would have had time to discuss Edward’s behavior with Sherlock and John yesterday. She also wished she could investigate Rucastle’s house. It was, after all, one of the reasons why she was undercover in the first place; to find evidence proving Rucastle murdered Lady Elise. Or at the very least, was an accessory to the murder.

Violet strongly suspected the Earl of Winchester had a hand in Lady Elise’s untimely demise.

But Edward was always underfoot and Mrs. Toller was always popping in unexpectedly, still checking up on her, even though it’d been three days.

Speaking of the devil, Mrs. Toller stuck her head into the nursery. Her cloying perfume wafted into the room. Violet tried not to gag. “Almost time for Maths?” she asked conversationally.

“Mm,” Violet checked her watch. “He has ten more minutes.”

“Yeah, I have ten more minutes,” Edward snapped. “Go away Mrs. Toller. I hate you.”

“Eddie, don’t be rude,” Violet said placidly. “It’s mean to tell people you hate them. Mrs. Toller is a very nice lady who has been taking care of your mum while she’s ill.”

“It’s quite alright, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Toller narrowed her eyes at Violet. “I don’t need you to defend me from a child.”

“Oh, I’m not defending you, Mrs. Toller,” Violet purred. “I’m teaching the boy manners since you failed to do so.”

Mrs. Toller stalked out of the nursery. _Violet 1, Mrs. T, a big fat zero_ , Violet grinned to herself. She let Edward have his ten minutes of free time before Violet said, “Alright, Eddie, shall we work on some maths?”

“Can we do the money again?”

Violet had taken one look at what Rucastle and Mrs. Toller expected her to teach the boy and threw the lesson plan straight into the bin. A six-year-old does not need to learn about _algebra_.

Violet instead decided to teach him simple arithmetic by using coins.  Practical as always, Violet had decided if she was going to be stuck being this little monster’s tutor, she might as well teach him something useful.

She vividly recalled returning to Baker Street after walking Gladstone and Sherlock telling her to sit down so he could tell her and John about Victor at the same time because repeating the same story twice was tedious.  He then explained that after a life-time of home-schooling, Sherlock had been quite unprepared for university. While his mother had been so busy teaching things like physics and Russian literature, she had quite forgotten to teach him basic life skills. Like how to balance a cheque book ledger or how to drive a car.

“I felt like an idiot when I arrived at university,” Sherlock had said. “Victor took me under his wing, taught me all those things while I tutored him in the subjects he struggled with. Eventually… we became… close.”

She didn’t know if university was in Edward Rucastle’s future, but she wanted him to be able to add and subtract properly. What better way to learn than to use money?

“Yes, of course,” Violet smiled, digging into her pockets for the change she had collected for Edward. As a reward, Violet let him keep a penny for every math problem he solved correctly.

She sat down next to the boy. “Another picture for Mummy?” she asked pleasantly.

But the boy shook his head. “Mummy only likes the happy pictures. I’m going to make a picture of a bunny for her later,” Edward said. “This is just for fun.”

“May I see?” Violet asked, already wary about how much red, orange and black crayon was on the paper. Edward shrugged and pushed the drawing towards her.

“Ohhh…” Violet breathed, hiding her shock.

The boy had drawn a terribly violent picture.

“Eddie,” Violet struggled to keep her voice steady, remembering his joy when he had shown her the cockroach he had crushed and how happy he was when she had told him it hurt when he had bit her. “Who is the lady in this picture?”

“Dunno, just a lady,” Edward shrugged.

“Mm,” Violet said. “But Eddie, why is the lady on fire?”

“’Cause that’s what happens to ‘em when they die,” Edward explained to her as if she was very slow on the uptake. “Can we do money now, Violet?”

“Of course,” Violet said faintly, still staring at the picture, feeling numb, feeling like she was missing something.

Then the “something” slammed into her with the force of a speeding freight train.

_No fucking way_.

**

5 August 2015  
New Scotland Yard  
Wednesday morning  
10:02 AM

“No fucking way.”

John stared open-mouthed at Sherlock.

Sherlock sat serenely in Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office, his fingers tented and with his usual smug “I Am Better at Everything” expression plastered on his face.

Lestrade sat at his desk, fiddling with his pen. “I suppose I should call Whitey, it’s actually his case, after all.”

 “Wrong,” Sherlock bristled. “It’s _my_ case.”

This was the first time Lestrade had seen Sherlock since the wedding. He definitely had mixed-feelings about Sherlock sitting in his office, spewing his usual vitriol. But on the other side, his genius really couldn’t be denied.

Lestrade stuffed his anger at Sherlock down. When it came to bizarre crimes like this… oh, who was he trying to kid, they fucking needed him. The worst part was that he damn well knew it.

“Besides, although he does not remember me back how I was in the Old Days, DI Mason is not exactly a fan of mine,” he looked pointedly at Lestrade. “He was the one you had to pry off me before he broke my arm.”

“Oh,” Lestrade immediately remembered that particular drugs bust. Shouting at Mason… _Leave him alone, he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time… I said leave him, you’re going to snap his fucking arm in two… he’s just trying to help, he said he knows who the fucking killer is, let him go right now, dammit, Whitey!_

He also then remembered why he took Sherlock under his wing in the first place… the possibility that a Great Man could become a Good Man, if pointed in the right direction.

_Maybe John’s right,_ Lestrade thought. _Maybe Sherlock’s more gutted about the baby than he’s letting on because he’s Sherlock Fucking Holmes. Who really knows what’s going on in that gigantic head of his anyway?_

“OK, ladies,” John jumped in, sensing the tension between Sherlock and Lestrade and making  a few apt deductions of his own as to what possibly could be causing it. “So if this is our man, what are we going to do about it? Is there enough for an arrest?”

“If?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Please. Arthur Toller, failed actor, with a juvenile record of petty theft and arson along with court-ordered therapy sessions for pyromania and obsessive-compulsive disorder that had been buried, but not buried deep enough. There is no ‘if’ about it, John.” He nodded towards Lestrade. “Please express my gratitude to Sergeant MacDonald for her thorough research. I believe she would make a very good DI someday.”

“You’re not the first to say that,” Lestrade said gruffly.

“Yeah, but, according to Alex’s research and from what I remember from what Violet said about Rucastle’s staff…” John shook his head in complete disbelief. “This is the same Toller who’s working for Rucastle as his PA!”

“Yes, of course it is, do try and keep up John.”

“Sherlock,” John gritted his teeth. “Violet is _alone_ in Rucastle’s house! That is Not Good!” 

“You mean to tell me your girlfriend is alone in the house of a murder suspect!” Lestrade bawled at Sherlock. “For God’s sake, man, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Oh relax,” Sherlock scoffed. “She’s fine. She’s not alone. Toller is Rucastle’s PA, so he is with him. Today they’re in meetings, closing the deal on some clothing line that he’s trying to start up in America. Violet is with a six-year-old child and an old woman. What harm can come to her?”

“Sherlock, she’s not well,” John said and told him  about Violet’s hands.

Sherlock became quite still and very quiet. “Right, that changes things,” he said briskly enough, as if John merely told him that Violet had a hair appointment that was running late. “John, I will need you to see Molly this afternoon and find out what she had discovered. She had texted earlier today to inform me confirming that imbecile Bodley did miss a clue.” He steepled his fingers again and stared up at the ceiling “So… in this most unholy trinity, we have learned that the person in charge of disposing of the body is quite possibly Arthur Toller. This data supports that theory. However in our most inadequate law enforcement system, it is unfortunately not enough to convict and keep him off the streets. That, of course, is really not my problem. However the barristers do get quite shirty if they do not have concrete conclusive evidence to prove their case within the bounds of our pathetic legal system. So we will need actual evidence or a confession to show that Toller is indeed the one who disposes of the bodies, after he’s had his fun. At any rate, it is safe to assume that Rucastle is the actual murderer, even though we have yet to determine how he is killing the girls. I believe Molly may have discovered that missing piece to this very captivating puzzle. Once we learn how Rucastle is killing the girls, we can determine how he killed Lady Elise and then covered his tracks to make it look like a suicide. However… the one who is actually procuring the girls…” now Sherlock leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and ruffled his hair. “That villain remains elusive.”

“Well, we’ve got enough I think to warrant surveillance on Toller,” Lestrade said grimly. “Although I’d prefer we catch these people before they kidnap and kill another girl.”

There was a quick rap on Lestrade’s office door then it opened. Alex stuck her head in. “Good, everyone’s still here,” she opened the door more widely . She held up two manila files. “Third vic’s been ID’ed. Antonia Pandy. Friends called her Toni Pandy. Was a recent grad from the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts, worked part-time as a barista at a Starbucks near her flat until about two months ago when she got a part as a fairy in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Her parents reported her missing a month ago.”  

The three men smiled. That was the longest speech Alex had made in front of them ever.

“Made a copy for you,” she added, thrusting a file into Sherlock’s hands before crossing over to Lestrade. “And you. Gave DI Mason the original file since he thinks he can still solve this.”

“Thanks Alex,” Lestrade grinned but Alex was already out the door.

“Oh, I _like_ her,” Sherlock said, thumbing through the file. Then he snapped the file shut and said “Right, John, you speak to Molly. I need to ensure my…” he rolled his eyes, “ _Girlfriend’s_ safety.”

“Can I have two minutes, Sherlock? Alone?” Lestrade asked.

“Right, I’ll go see Molly then,” John said, feeling the tension building in the room again. This time he didn’t care to defuse  it. “And I’ll go through Toni Pandy’s social media again. Maybe we’ll get lucky with this one,” he said but without much hope. Alana Grant’s and Martine Hallard’s social media hadbeen all but useless. Nothing on their Twitter feeds and Facebook pages but duck-faced selfies and vague comments about people who had supposedly wronged them and picturesque photographs of nature with inspirational quotes… which were  all posted before the bereaved comments about how senseless their deaths were and how much they were going to be missed, of course. “Talk to you later, then?” John asked. “After you talk to Violet,” he gave Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock, of course, didn’t need to be reminded about his promise to talk to Violet about Mary. He waved John off and waited for Lestrade to start berating him.

He, of course, had already deduced what Lestrade wanted “two minutes” for so he prepared himself for the interrogation and the inevitable dressing-down about his irresponsibility. 

Once John had shut the door, Lestrade put his hands on his hips and leaned towards Sherlock. “I know who the father is, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Molly told me.”

“If you’re concerned whether or not she still has feelings for me and merely married you for convenience, rest assured that her little infatuation for me is over and has been well over for quite some time,” Sherlock said blandly. “What happened last January was the first and last time Molly and I had eve-”

“Oh my God, stop, just stop, shut up!” Lestrade squawked, holding up his hand to stop Sherlock from talking.  “I don’t want details. I don’t want to picture the two of you...” He grimaced, then inhaled sharply then exhaled slowly. “Right. So. Molly said she told you to stay out of the picture except to pop in once in a while as Uncle Sherlock, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said tensely.

“And you’re good with that? You’re going to abide by that?”

“It is the best solution for everyone involved at this time.”

“At this time, what about later?

“I specifically told Molly she had made a sensible decision and that I would respect her wishes, in fact my exact words to her were, _It will be completely your decision to tell him or not tell him I am his father, I won’t interfere._ But,” Sherlock over-emphasized the “T” as he held up a finger. “I also cannot control if and when the child decides to seek _me_ out, if and when he decides to search for his natural father. Someday, he will become an autonomous human being, a person with a mind and will of his own who will eventually figure out you are not his biological father.” He laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “I also promised to pay for his education along with other child care costs. I am also going to change my will so he’s one of my heirs once he’s born. That, you cannot and will not argue with me about, I have already devised a way to do all of this as to not draw attention of the wrong people. Besides,” Sherlock shrugged then looked at the floor. ”It’s the least I can do.”

“The least… goddamn it, Sherlock, what about _fucking Moriarty_?” Lestrade struggled to keep his voice down. “Molly dated that bastard before we realized what he was. What happens if that kid is born looking and acting like a mini-you instead of a mini-Molly? Then what? How are you going to protect her and the kid?”

“Greg,” Sherlock used Lestrade’s correct name so he would pay attention to him. “Listen to me very carefully. Jim Moriarty is the least of your concerns when it comes to the child.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped a bit but he shut it quickly. “Who’s… worse, than Moriarty?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, for that is my problem to solve and you do not wish to know that particular solution,” Sherlock stood up, smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket down. “For now, just keep going with the ruse, the one John created after he and Violet had retrieved me from the candy factory. You and Molly rekindled your relationship in January, not February. It’s amazing how unobservant people truly are when it comes to children. I wouldn’t be surprised if people comment how the child looks like you, which, really, is the best defense. I deduced that you too once had black hair.”

Lestrade ran his fingers through his silvery hair. “Sherlock… I just… this is just… I mean… it’s… it’s you… you’re supposed to be the Great Genius so I’m having a real hard time wrapping my head around how in the world could you be so _stupid_?” Lestrade yelled the last word.

Sherlock blinked, taken aback. He was used to people telling him off for boasting about his intellect, not for the lack of it. “Stupid…?” he said lamely, utterly bewildered now. “ _Me_?”

“Yeah. YOU. Stupid, careless, irresponsible, selfish,” Lestrade seethed. “And, honestly, explain to me how in the hell could you do _that_ to Molly in the first place? She said she had been blindingly drunk the night you two…” Lestrade made a face. “So you explain to me right now how… how you could take advantage of her like that, someone who has been one of your most loyal friends? I never saw you as that kind of man, to throw a leg over a woman who was in not in any position to tell you _no_. Some people would even call that rape, mate.”

Suddenly Sherlock was seven years old again, he felt the Earl’s hands on him, forcing him to ground, pulling at his clothes…

“I would _never_ force anyone against their will!” Sherlock charged towards Lestrade until the desk was the only thing between them. Even so, Lestrade backed up a bit, surprised by the sudden fire in the detective’s eyes as he continued to shout: “How dare you accuse me of doing something so foul to someone else, especially who is important to me, who matters to me. You must be a bigger fool than you look to believe I would be capable of such atrocities. And I would never ever hurt Molly like that, _ever!_ ”

Sherlock looked like he was about to climb over Lestrade’s desk to throttle him.  “OK, OK,” Lestrade held his hand up again, more than startled by Sherlock’s outburst. He had seen a variety of Sherlock’s temper tantrums, of course… but he had never seen that kind of white-hot fury from the normally icy detective before. “OK, I believe you, Jesus Christ, it’s just that…”

_You knew I still had feelings for her and you fucked her anyway_ , he fumed to himself.

Because he was Sherlock Holmes, because he was angry and because he deduced exactly what Lestrade was thinking, Sherlock added in a particularly poisonous voice, “And it’s not my fault you let her slip away because you procrastinated with your divorce. You’re bloody lucky she took you back. You don’t deserve her. And neither do I,” Sherlock added, locking his eerie eyes onto Lestrade’s. “So if you are indeed finished marking your territory then kindly get to the point of this wholly unpleasant conversation so we can move on, if you please. I have a case to solve and an archenemy to capture.”    

“The point of this conversation is how in the hell could someone like you put Molly and a little baby in such a dangerous position! You’re telling me there’s someone worse than Moriarty out there? I just… I just can’t see how you… well, not that the child isn’t a blessing,” Lestrade’s voice softened.  “And Molly is delighted to be a mum… but still how could you be so bleeding _stupid_? You’re nearly forty years old. Surely you know what a rubber is?”

“I was high,” Sherlock blurted out, tired of Lestrade harping at him, desperate to make him stop. “I had a relapse last January. I got high and went to her flat because I wanted a … friend… to talk to but she was very intoxicated as well… and… it just… happened.”

“Oh Jesus,” Lestrade sank into his chair, feeling like a complete idiot. It was so obvious now, of course. What else could have made him lose his infamous rigid control?

The fucking drugs, that’s what.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. “Sherlock… why didn’t you call me? I told you, time and time again, you could always call me if you had a craving.”

“I was high?” Sherlock reminded him caustically. “Wasn’t exactly making rational decisions.”

“No. Not that…before… why didn’t you call me when you felt the trigger. And for God’s sake, sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

Sherlock sat, feeling like he had during that brief period he had gone to primary school and had been called to the headmaster’s office after one of his experiments had gone horribly wrong. “I… wasn’t making very rational decisions before I used, I’m embarrassed to admit. It was all a blur, for real this time, not like when I dropped the CIA agent 23 times onto Mrs. Hudson’s bins.”

Lestrade grinned. “I knew you really didn’t lose count.” 

Sherlock didn’t smile back. He really didn’t feel like smiling at the moment. “It was right after Moriarty came back. Mary had lost the baby and John wasn’t handling it very well. I was trying to distract him the best way I knew how, just like I did when he first moved to Baker Street and had been struggling with his PTSD. But I was hunting Moriarty at the same time with the knowledge that you, Molly, Mrs. Hudson…and John… everyone I am… fond of… was going to be his target, Moriarty’s. All the work I was doing, it was staggering. Hunting Moriarty while taking care of John and still consulting cases _for you_ ,” He gave Lestrade his coldest glare. Only when Lestrade dropped his eyes did Sherlock continue: “John certainly wasn’t taking care of himself after Mary nearly dying in childbirth. Then he lost his daughter on top of that. So I dragged John along on a case, just a boring case, a Three, really. Just to get him out of his own head, to shake him out of his ridiculous and illogical guilt. I wanted him to him to stop blaming himself for Mary and for losing Marissa…”

Sherlock had instantly disliked the diminutive “Maisie” and had planned on calling her Marissa despite what her parents and whoever else called her… _and perhaps there’s a chance I still can_ … he thought before continuing:

“But it backfired, that particular case. John and I got into one of the worst rows we’ve ever had.”

After what felt like the longest silence in the history of the world, Lestrade finally asked, “What did John say, Sherlock? What did he say that triggered the relapse?”

“He didn’t mean it,” Sherlock said quickly, “He was exhausted and emotionally-wrought. He apologized the next day. He still doesn’t know I relapsed.”

“What did he say, Sherlock?”

“That… he wished… I hadn’t come back. That I would have stayed… dead.” Sherlock shrugged. “After he said that and walked away, I just… didn’t care.”

Lestrade started fiddling with his pen again. “You should have called me,” he repeated himself but in a much lower voice. He put the pen down. “And now? How are you doing?”

Sherlock felt the temptation to lie. But he found himself telling the truth before he could stop himself, “Not good. The last few days have been difficult, even with the methadone. But it’s not like it usually is when I get high, when I was using because I was bored and I just wanted to experiment. It’s like it was… before… back in ’08.”

The word _overdose_ hovered in the air.

Even though he knew Sherlock would immediately reject the proposition, Lestrade still asked “Maybe you should think about going to a support group again, alright, _alright_ it was just an idea,” Lestrade said as Sherlock gave him a look that could melted glass. “Jesus.” He rested his face on his hand. “I think right now you’re really overburdened, mate.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock said while thinking, _And who do you propose should take on my burdens while I go on a nice holiday to recuperate?_

“Where’s Violet in all of this?” Lestrade asked. “How much does she know?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” Lestrade said incredulously.

“Everything. The drugs. The baby…” _My horrific childhood… Victor…_

_Quite possibly even knows about Ford… or at least about his existence…_

“Then you better talk to her,” Lestrade lectured him. “If you won’t talk to a professional, at least tell her what’s going on inside your head, OK?” When Sherlock nodded, Lestrade added, “You know I’m still pissed off at you, right? For putting Molly in a mess like this?”

“Understandable,” Sherlock muttered.

“But you can still call me if you think you’re about to fall off the wagon,” Lestrade said gruffly. “I mean it, I’m not joking. I mean, yeah, I’m mad as hell at you…really fucking pissed off, actually. But you died. For me.”

“Fake-died.”

“Same difference.” The silence grew extraordinarily uncomfortable again. Finally Lestrade waved him away, grunting “Go on now. Go be brilliant. Go save the world one case at a time. I’ll keep the mobile on for you, just in case.”

 Sherlock attempted a smile and slipped out of his office to his next appointment.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Then he remembered his next appointment was with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club.

He groaned.

Pulled out his mobile, called Lestrade.

“ _Already?”_

“Yes.” 

_“_ But… you’re still in the building, _I can see you!_ ”

“Forgive me, but I have to meet my brother for lunch. I would drink battery acid right now if that would get me through the ordeal. If there was a drug dealer at the end of a pier, I would gladly push old ladies and small children and medium-sized dogs into the raging water to get them out of my way if that meant I could score faster.”

Lestrade groaned. “OK, we’ll get through this…”

**

5 August 2015  
Jepthro Rucastle’s Residence  
Wednesday morning  
3:57 PM

“Ahhh… tea time, the best time of the day,” Jepthro Rucastle crowed, dropping a bright green suit jacket and a blood red neck-tie on the floor as he entered his home. He then dropped a glittery silver satchel that a twelve-year-old schoolgirl would have been embarrassed to be seen carrying as well as his portfolio. Renderings of future dresses fluttered to the floor. 

As the giant man knelt down to greet the little boy running towards him, Violet wondering if his equally bright green trousers would split wide open in the rear.

Indeed, the man looked like a giant watermelon.

“Daddy!” Edward crowed, snuggling into the crook of his father’s arm.

Violet’s smile was genuine. No matter what was wrong with the boy, he really loved his daddy. 

“Were you a good boy for Miss Smith?” Rucastle asked his squirming son.

“Oh yes, I really was,” Edward beamed. “Daddy, Miss Smith said if it’s OK with you and if I continue being good, she could take me on an adventure Friday afternoon, oh Daddy, can I?”

Rucastle fixed his piggy eyes on Violet. She smiled and mouthed at him, “Swimming pool.”

Bribing him to be good had been the only way she had been able to keep him from kicking his puppy all day. She had seethed to herself again about their utter idiocy for giving the young boy a little pup as a pet. He clearly wasn’t ready for the responsibility and as the days had worn on, Violet now noticed something else: Little Carlo loathed Edward. The puppy would run from the child when he came near and if Edward tried to pick him up, Little Carlo would nip at his fingers.

But Violet had a sinking feeling she would be ignored if she reported that Edward was too rough with the little dog. Rucastle would probably produce a hearty laugh and wink and say something inane and incorrect like “Boys will be boys!”

Right now Rucastle gazed adoringly at his son and smoothed the child’s hair back. “I’m OK with adventures, as long as you,” he tapped Edward on the nose. “Keep” he tapped Edward on the nose again “Being” and again. “Good,” and he pinched the boy’s nose then stuck his thumb between his pointer finger and middle finger. “Ha! What’s this? Got your conk!”

“No you don’t,” the boy giggled, clearly enjoying the attention from his father.

Meanwhile, Toller picked up Rucastle’s drawings, bags and clothing.

Violet clasped her hands together and studied the PA. Dressed, as usual, in one of his fine suits, what was left of his hair combed neatly back off his huge forehead.

In fact… he was dressed exactly like he was yesterday… and the day before that… and the day before that… and the day she had met him.

Except the color of the necktie and handkerchief in his pocket were different from yesterday. Yesterday it had been yellow. Today it was green. Monday… it had been red…

In fact… the day she had met him, the necktie and handkerchief had been yellow… she had met him on a Tuesday. And yesterday had been a Tuesday…

Sherlock had commented that Toller had been wearing a grey suit and a purple tie when he had dropped off Violet’s uniforms at 221B on Saturday…

Purple… Violet…

An old, childhood acronym popped into her head ROY G. BIV.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo… violet.

The colors of the rainbow… she had a feeling tomorrow’s tie and handkerchief would be blue. 

But his suit… his suit was exactly the same as the one he wore yesterday. She hadn’t noticed because… she hadn’t observed. Why would she? The suit was clean and stylish. His accessories had distracted her from the fact that it was The Same Goddamn Suit.

Another acronym flew through her head… OCD.

_Sherlock was right…_

She could hear him gloating, _Of course I was right, I’m_ always _right_.  

 “Where shall I put these, sir?” Toller asked, staring at his boss with his watery-eyes.

“Oh, I don’t care, come along it’s almost tea-time… Miss Smith, I say, where _is_ your scarf?”

Violet slapped her hand to her neck. _Oh fuck me_.

She had clean forgotten about the stupid scarf.

She opened her mouth to make an excuse when the doorbell chimed.

“Toller, go get that,” Rucastle said testily. “And send them away at once. I detest being interrupted during Family Time.”

Mrs. Toller had just entered the foyer to announce Tea was ready. Toller deposited Rucastle’s things into Mrs. Toller’s string-bean arms and went to answer the door.

Rucastle, moving faster than Violet expected, suddenly hovered over her. “Miss Smith, I do believe we need to have a conversation about dress code, hm?”

Violet opened her mouth again… but shut it when she heard _Sherlock’s voice_.

“… oh, shan’t be but a moment,” Sherlock told Toller in an airy voice as he pushed past the PA.

_What the hell?_ Violet thought, looking up at Rucastle.

He looked ecstatic.   

Of course he would. A celebrity was in his house.

Sherlock all but waltzed into the foyer… carrying a bouquet of… flowers?

_What the actual hell????_ Now Violet’s jaw dropped open.

“Ah, there you are,” Sherlock smiled at her as if…. As if she really was the love of his life.

“Hi,” she said lamely. Gathering herself she said “This… this is a surprise.”

“Indeed, but I couldn’t wait until tonight and I’ve had a break between cases, happy birthday, my love,” and he tenderly placed the bouquet in her hands. “You thought I forgot, didn’t you?” he said after he kissed her on the cheek, and not just a peck either.

In fact, it was dangerously close to the corner of her mouth.

“Uh… I…” she desperately tried to get her bearings. “You’ve been so busy… darling.” 

She actually did think he forgot or rather deleted it as an unimportant fact. Her real birth date was the same as his, January 6, 1976.

But the birth date on Violet Smith’s identification cards read August 5, 1978.

Now Rucastle glowed. “It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you say anything, many happy returns!”

“Happy birthday,” Mrs. Toller said astringently.

“Oh… I didn’t think it was…” flustered Violet looked to Sherlock for rescue.

“In case you haven’t already noticed, Miss Smith is a bit on the reserved side, which I find most endearing actually. I’m the one who’s a showoff, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said jovially, putting his arm around Violet’s shoulders.

Violet played her part and smelled the flowers. They were actually lovely… and they were flowers she genuinely liked, stargazer lilies. They smelt heavenly… so much better than Mrs. Toller’s foul perfume. “They’re really beautiful,” she told Sherlock, rearranging her face to look like a besotted girlfriend. “Thank you, you shouldn’t have.”

“I know, but I simply couldn’t help myself. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your new employer. I apologize, I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock stuck his hand out to Rucastle to shake.

Rucastle took it and wrung it furiously. “The Great Consulting Detective, I know who you are, a most fascinating man, you are. I’ve been dying to meet you, but didn’t know how to ask Miss Smith to arrange a meet-up without sounding rude. And here you are. What a magnificent day it is! Mrs. Toller, can you arrange for some cake or something? No, scratch that. It is Miss Smith’s birthday, you’ll want to spend it with Mr. Holmes, I warrant,” he winked roguishly at her.

Violet wished he would stop doing that.

“Oh but I must give you a gift… ah, I know… we’ll have a belated birthday supper, a night out on the town. My treat, this Friday night, the both of you? I’ll send a car around to Baker Street, no I insist. It will give you a chance to show off my birthday present. What size shoes do you wear, Violet?”

“What?” Violet spluttered.

“Come now, can’t wear a gown without matching slippers. Eddie, my lad, want to help Daddy pick out a birthday dress for Miss Smith?”

“Oh yes,” Eddie wrapped his spindly arms around Rucastle’s massive neck. “’lectric blue, right, Daddy? That’s her color.”

“Absolutely correct, you magnificent boy!” Rucastle cuddled the boy closer to him. Then bawled out, “Mrs. Toller, it’ll just be the five of us for tea. Miss Smith will want to spend the rest of the evening with her fiancé, but I want to hear all about your adventures Saturday night, Mr. Holmes… especially how you survived that ruddy nose-dive from St. Bart’s rooftop!”   

“I can’t wait,” Sherlock grinned, tightening his grip around Violet’s shoulder. “So, if I really do have your permission to steal my fiancée for the rest of the afternoon…?”

“Of course, of course. Have fun, but not too much fun, we need her to come back tomorrow,” Rucastle winked again at the pair of them. “Toller, go get Miss Smith’s things.”

Once Toller returned with Violet’s handbag, Sherlock escorted Violet from the house, his arm still around her shoulder. He kept the pretense up until they were a block away, where a black cab idled, waiting for them.

“I almost gave up on you, guv,” the cabbie sat up and put his mobile down.

“Good thing you didn’t, you would have been cheated out of a rather large fare,” Sherlock said, sliding the glass partition shut. 

Just as Sherlock said, “Toller is the one disposing the Burned Girls bodies,” Violet Hunter burst out, “Toller’s involved with the Burned Girls.”

Then, in unison, they said, “How do you know?” Then Violet said, “Go ahead.”

Sherlock told Violet about what Alex MacDonald had found. Then Violet told Sherlock what she had noticed about Toller’s suits. While Sherlock pondered that bit of information, she pulled Edward’s drawing out of the back pocket of her skirt, unfolded it and handed it to him, telling him about how Edward had said _’Cause that’s what happens to ‘em when they die_ when she had asked him why the lady in the picture was on fire.  

Sherlock’s face darkened and folded the drawing up again. “I must meet this child.” He tucked the folded drawing into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. 

“I think I’ve got Rucastle convinced to take Eddie to the swimming pool on Friday.”

Sherlock nodded then he took the flowers out of Violet’s hands and thrust them without ceremony behind him, tempted to throw the damned things out the window. The scent of the flowers overpowered him.  Instead  of chucking the flowers out, he took her hands , held them up to his omnipotent eyes. “Your hands. How are they? John told me you were unwell, have you experienced any more tremors?” He flipped her hands over, examining her palms.

“I’m OK, I’m just,” Violet felt all her strength slip away from her. “Really tired.”

“Mm,” he cupped her chin with one hand while continuing to hold her other hand. “Late night with Mary?” he tilted her head up, gazing into her eyes. “My dear Violet, I thought we had an agreement it was pointless to lie to one another?”

“Unless someone’s safety is absolutely dependent on keeping quiet,” she reminded him.

“Fair enough, but in this case, I need to know the truth.”

She looked at him steadily. She already knew what he was going to ask.

“Is Marissa Watson still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said honestly. “But she might be.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock repeated himself, still holding her face in his hand. He wanted to ask her more questions but she looked quite pale, drained. “You’re not well, Violet. You really _are_ exhausted.”

“So are you,” Violet observed the shadows underneath the Great Detective’s eyes. “You OK?”

“No,” he admitted, remembering Lestrade’s admonishments. “I had a bad night last night. Not a Danger Night,” he said quickly, “Just a bad night. But enough of that for now,” he put his arm back around Violet again. “It’s my turn to take care of you. I have not forgotten how you cared for me not just when I had bronchitis, but also while I was going through withdrawal after that hideous misadventure at the candy factory last spring.”

Violet hesitated, not sure what was bringing on this uncharacteristic display of affection. But she found she could suddenly no longer keep her eyes open. So she gave in. She curled up into his arms. “Why did you have a bad night?” 

Sherlock murmured. “When you are feeling better, we’ll tell each other our sad stories, alright?”

She nodded then fell asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder as he held her during the cab ride back to Baker Street. He rested his head against her chestnut hair while he watched his beloved city rush past him outside the cab window.

She didn’t even stir when Sherlock carried her from the cab up to the flat. 

He had left the bouquet in the cab on purpose, but the cabbie had called out to Sherlock. Then he got out of the cab and brought the flowers to him. Sherlock grimaced, muttered a very sarcastic thank you to the cabbie and ended up with quite the armful as he went inside.

That was, of course, caught on CCTV.

As they watched the footage, Anthea asked Mycroft: “Is he falling for her?”

Mycroft steepled his fingers, just like his little brother.

“No. I trained him better than that. The shoe, I believe, is on the other foot.”

“Sorry, I don’t follow?”

“I believe,” Mycroft drawled. “She is falling for him.”    

“How unfortunate for her.”

“Indeed, quite unfortunate for her… but fortuitous for _us_.”


	14. Wolves in Lambs’ Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who’s Ford?”
> 
> I think it's safe to say this is the chapter everyone has been waiting for... :^)
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter Fourteen: Wolves in Lambs’ Clothing

5 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Wednesday evening  
8:08 PM

Violet slowly roused from her sleep, feeling a strange woolen blanket on top of her. She smelled cigarettes, good cologne and the slightest trace of formaldehyde.

She heard soft violin music, stopping and starting again…. Sherlock, composing, still working on that new piece he had started weeks ago, shortly after Molly and Greg’s wedding.

She sat up slowly with a yawn, running her hand over the slightly scratchy blanket Sherlock had thrown over her. Her feet also felt very _very_ warm. When she was fully awake, she rolled her eyes, a little irritated but mostly amused. Sherlock must have carried her from the cab to the sofa. But he couldn’t have been bothered to take the extra effort to get an actual blanket for her.

He had thrown the Belstaff over her.

And Gladstone was sleeping on top of her feet like he was a pampered lap-cat instead of a ferocious police dog. 

Shaking her head, Violet reached up and undid the topknot she had hastily put her hair in this morning. Now it tumbled down in chestnut waves down her back. Not for the first time, she wondered if she should cut it.

She looked at the coffee table and saw her glasses and shoes. Why Sherlock put her shoes on the coffee table was beyond her, but at least he had been kind enough to take them off.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looked over his music stand as he was jotting notes down on sheet music and saw Violet stirring. “Ah. Good evening. How are you feeling?” he asked as he finished a note with a flourish before putting the pencil down.

“Better,” Violet said and meant it. She wiped at her mouth, embarrassed to find the crust of drool on her chin. She must have passed completely out. But she felt genuinely better. “What time is it? And when did you get the air fixed?” The flat felt like the North Pole and it was absolutely magical. The only thing that would have made it better was if it started snowing inside.

“Last night,” Sherlock said triumphantly, still inordinately proud of his mechanical prowess. “As for the time, it is slightly past eight o’clock. I am not hungry but you should eat.” He pulled out a soft cloth from the violin case and carefully, almost lovingly, cleaned the instrument before setting it gently inside its case.

“I’m really not hungry,” Violet started to get up but Gladstone refused to budge.

“I insist,” Sherlock said making himself sound stern but on the inside, he felt a wicked delight in being the one ordering Violet to eat and rest instead of the other way around. Oh, how marvelous that the shoe was on the other foot! “You’ve been burning the candle on both ends for quite some time now. I think the cause of your shaking hands last night was low blood sugar, but I was not there to observe so I cannot be certain,” he lectured as he loosened the bow-hair before sliding the bow itself into the case with the same care as the violin. Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

Violet sat up again and leaned over to scratch Gladstone’s pointed ears. “Hey buddy,” she crooned. The dog’s tail thumped against the sofa cushions.

It was unnaturally quiet in the flat while Sherlock was in the kitchen. Slightly concerned when she didn’t hear any bangs or booms or crashes, Violet had been about to call out and ask if everything was alright. But Sherlock re-entered the lounge before Violet said anything, bearing a tray, with a single plate and two mugs. He set the tray down on the coffee table with a thud then thrust the plate of food at her. Then he told Gladstone in exquisite German to get off the sofa.  The dog gave Sherlock a woebegone look and uttered a small, almost puppy-ish whine. But the Alsatian slunk off the sofa, then trotted over to Sherlock’s chair and curled up in it.

“Wretched hound,” Sherlock sighed as picked up his mug of tea and settled himself down at the other end of the sofa. He still wore the trousers and nice shirt he had put on this morning, but had shed the suit jacket and shoes after he had deposited Violet on the sofa. “Eat,” he told her brusquely before sipping his tea.

Violet arched an eyebrow looking at her plate. It was the simplest of meals. An open-faced cheese-and-tomato sandwich with apple slices on the side. “This better not be drugged,” Violet grizzled as she picked up the sandwich.  

“I’m hurt you would suggest such a thing,” Sherlock tried to look wounded and failed.

“Silly me, why would _I_ worry about such a thing like that?” Violet rolled her eyes and took a bite. She was surprised how tasty it actually was, the tomato was fresh, the cheese a good mozzarella and the bread a nice toasted baguette. Her appetite, which had been lagging the past few days, perked up. She was suddenly ravenous.

She was of course acutely aware Sherlock studied every move she made as she ate. She was mostly used to this by now. Instead of feeling self-conscious, she devoured half of the sandwich as he watched her with unblinking eyes.

Wiping crumbs off her upper lip, she said, “You’re being nice,” in an accusatory voice.

He shrugged. “It happens occasionally.”

“No. Not like this,” she tilted her head to the side. Now she was the one who studied him. “You’re being extremely nice. You’re being considerate. Like, you’re almost acting like a functioning human being.” She frowned. “Are you dying?”

“Not today,” Sherlock smirked. “However I do confess I do have an ulterior motive for caring for you. But first I must confess I threw those flowers in the bin. The scent,” his entire face crinkled up as he remembered, “was overwhelming.”

“Oh,” was all she said, but she did feel slightly crestfallen. The stargazer lilies had been really lovely, but she supposed she should not have been surprised that the flowers had been tossed out. She had stopped wearing her favorite perfume shortly after she had moved into the flat with him. Especially after how he had commented he could smell the extract of witch hazel and coconut oil she used in her beauty regime. And witch hazel barely had a scent to it at all.

She knew about the hyperacuity, had suspected it for years as she had researched him, spied on him. One night, after he suffered a particularly disturbing PTSD nightmare, he had confirmed it for her. Lately she had been wondering if he also had hyperacusis. Not to the point where it was debilitating, but it did seem like he could hear things others couldn’t. Why wouldn’t the rest of his senses be hyperactive as well? What were  taste and touch like for him?

_Sex must be amazing for him,_ Violet couldn’t help but think. _Probably why he abstains from it, normally, because it would be a huge distraction if his entire body is that hypersensitive. That’s probably why he’s all twisted up inside about Victor Trevor. Because you don’t forget your first time… except…_

_Victor wasn’t really his First,_ she remembered, feeling the food she just ate start to swirl uncomfortably in her stomach. Sherlock’s “gifts” also meant that the abuse he suffered at the hands of the Earl had also been just that much worse. 

“And yes, my ulterior motive is Victor.” Sherlock said coolly, finally blinking.

_How in the fuck does he do_ that? Violet hated it when he pulled that particular little trick of his, acting like he read her mind when he really picked up on some miniscule movement of her body, a twitch of her pinkie, a fluttering of her eyelid that gave away what she was thinking.

Agent Hunter had once been lauded as an up-and-comer in the Bureau, one of the potential greats in the field of profiling. She had certainly earned a reputation for her interrogation techniques. When she had been on the right side of the law, she didn’t have to resort to violence or torture. She just had the knack for finding the fatal flaw, finding the pressure point and _pushing_ … but it took her months, sometimes years of research to create an accurate profile for a person of interest. Sherlock could do that in seconds. All it took was for him to notice an untied shoelace or a missed belt loop.

“Victor?” she echoed faintly now, not exactly following Sherlock’s train of thought.

But then, who really could? 

“Mm,” Sherlock stretched out one of his long legs out on the sofa, then the other, wedging his foot in-between Violet’s hip and the back of the sofa, forcing her to scoot over just a tad.

Violet now found herself sitting in-between Sherlock’s bare feet.

_Oh, what the hell, I’ve been in worse positions_ , Violet decided, resigned. She continued to eat the simple meal Sherlock had prepared for her as the Great Consulting Detective spoke. “While I owe you a debt of kindness for your care while I was ill with bronchitis as well as during my dreadful withdrawal from the speedballs given to me by the foul villain Jack Woodley-”

Violet choked down a bite of apple and put the slice down, remembering…

Remembered Jack’s fist smashing into her face over and over… his old Army ring had cut her face so badly, it had left a scar, despite John’s best efforts to make the tiniest of sutures when he had stitched her up.

She also remembered being thrown down on the dirty concrete floor… Jack’s knee on her sternum, a towel held over her nose and mouth, cold water poured over her face… her body’s panicked reaction… _I’m drowning, I’m drowning… I’m dying…_

Remembered Jack’s laughter as he showed her picture after picture of what they did to her beloved Michael, whose only crime was trying to bring her home.

“Eat your fruit, Violet,” Sherlock ordered her, but not unkindly. “He can’t hurt you anymore. You made sure of that.”

Oh yes she did.

God, it had felt so _good_ , pulling the trigger, watching the life leaving the bastard’s eyes…

“As I was saying, while it is my turn to care for you since now you feel poorly, it also serves as a much welcome distraction.”

“Distraction?” Violet forced herself to nibble on the apple slice again. She really wasn’t hungry anymore. Memories of Jack Woodley and her brother’s suffering killed her appetite. “You mean, taking care of me distracts you from thinking about Victor, am I right?”

“Indeed. Now the cases, _The Work_ , have mercifully occupied my time as well as my extraordinary mental capabilities. While I was ill however, it was difficult to marshal my thoughts and to control my,” he wrinkled his entire face up again, as if the flowers were back in the flat. “ _Feelings._ But once I was in control of myself again, I was able to relegate  Victor to the proper lower level of my mind palace. I cannot delete him. I have tried. But he is too much of my past to erase completely from my mind.”

_And your heart,_ Violet silently added.

“However, thanks to my darling brother’s incessant meddling, Victor Trevor has now been once again upgraded to the penthouse suite,” he pressed his pointer finger right in the middle of his forehead again, “Of my mind palace. It is dreadfully annoying. I have Work to do. I don’t want to waste valuable time and precious brain power pondering over an ex… an ex…”

“Boy-friend,” Violet sing-songed at him and fluttered her eyelashes.

 “Yes, yes. If we must assign a label to him,” he said testily as he narrowed his eyes at her. “However, I have created a theory which I am testing now, is that when I am taking care of you, I don’t think about him! And therefore, I can focus on the Work as my care of you is mostly manual labor. Helping you to bed, making you meals, things that do not require much thought.”

“How heartwarming,” Violet deadpanned.

“Isn’t it though?” Sherlock beamed, oblivious as usual to his tactlessness.

“You’re just postponing the inevitable,” Violet set the plate down on the coffee table. She reached for the coffee mug and then hesitated.

“It’s just ice water.”

Violet cast him a sidelong look and sniffed the water anyway. When she couldn’t detect any strange scents, she took a tiny sip. When she didn’t pass out, she then took a very long drink from the mug. “You will have to figure out where Victor is going to fit into your life eventually. She looked into the mug, as if it were  tea and she was reading the leaves to divine the future. “Just so you know… if there was a chance of things working out for you guys… I mean, it’s glaringly obvious Victor came back to England for you…”

“Yes, but why now?” Sherlock mused, staring off into space. “That doesn’t make sense. Mycroft said he had been sacked, that was why he returned to England. But he’s been sacked before, loads of times. He never worried about it, he could always wrangle another job quite quickly. He’s very charming, Victor, a trait apparently I lack…”

“Sherlock,” Violet said in a voice sharper than usual. Now she could recognize the signs when he was about to drift off into his mind palace. Then it could be hours before he’d speak again.

Sherlock shook his head and ran his fingers through his black curls, returning to the Here and Now. “Right. Irrelevant, at this particular moment at any rate. And I am not postponing the inevitable, Agent Hunter.” He sniffed and squared his shoulders. Haughtily he announced, “I have rescheduled the inevitable to a more convenient time so I can devote the necessary energy to analyze the situation and handle it accordingly.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “That’s not how it works. Victor’s not going to wait for when it’s convenient for you. He’s going to press the subject again. Soon. He didn’t strike me as a patient man.”

“Your profile is correct, do not deny you’ve been building one for him,” Sherlock said when she opened her mouth. Violet snapped her mouth quickly shut and Sherlock continued. “He was never one to sit still, Victor. Sebastian Wilkes, a classmate of ours at uni, once said he was the raging river and I was the rock. I didn’t understand the reference at the time, but I was young, nineteen. I understand now, of course. Victor rushes and rushes and rushes while I can stay still. He always makes a lot of noise while I can stay silent for days if necessary, if there is nothing worthwhile to say. I can withstand the water while it washes everything else away.”

“But water can wear a rock down after enough time,” Violet bit her lip, looking into her mug. Then she cleared her throat. “Just so you know… if you and Victor… um, I just want you to know that I don’t want to be an obstacle if you and Victor find that you two still… that you two want to… try again. To be…” she shrugged. “I would just ask that you help me get back to America faster if you and Victor reunite, that’s all. Or, at the least, out of England, I can manage on my own if I could just get away from Mycroft.”

_Couldn’t we all?_ Sherlock thought as he trained his all-seeing eyes on the woman at the end of his sofa. He looked at her from the top of her chestnut hair down to the toes sticking out from under his coat. He observed how she used her forearms and elbows to keep his coat close to her body. He noticed how she unconsciously dipped her head down so she could catch the scent of the coat… no, incorrect… to catch the scent of him. The stale cigarettes, the odors lingering from the morgue and the cologne he had worn ever since The Woman had recommended to him while he had stayed with her briefly in Italy during his Great Hiatus. It was one of the few types of cologne he could wear that didn’t overload his olfactory system. 

He also noticed how she held the mug of water in her hands. Unknowingly, she held the mug close to her heart while her thumbs traced circles on it. It wasn’t just any ordinary mug either. It was the mug he had always thought of as “his.” He had prepared his tea in the mug he had always thought of as “John’s.”   

Making his tea in John’s mug was not a subconscious act. He felt desperately worried about his best friend. He hoped John wouldn’t put off coming to 221B tonight. There was Work to do, of course. The Work always came first… but Sherlock also needed to see how John was handling the latest bombshell in his life. A life that was truly a battlefield…

But John wasn’t here now, Violet was. And Violet was… _hurt. Her feelings are hurt, but why? Why would it upset her if Victor and I got back together…_

Then Sherlock solved the mystery. _Of course. Obvious. She doesn’t want to leave._

_No… not quite, a part of her wants to go back to America desperately… then why… ah…_

_She doesn’t want to leave… me._

_Oh…_

“I’m disappointed in you,” he told her sternly.

Her head snapped up. “What? Why?”

“Did I not vow to you that are my top priority and if you find yourself in doubt or danger and I am not nearby, a text will bring me to your side, day or night? And have I not kept that promise?”

“Well… yeah, but-”

“Then why do you think that a university dalliance would cause me to go back on my word?”

Violet smiled sheepishly as she set the mug down on the floor. “I know but-”

“There are no but’s and there shall be no further discussion on this topic. You are not an obstacle. You are a priority to me. If Victor cannot see that, then that makes even the possibility of a platonic friendship impossible. However,” the temperature in his voice dropped several  degrees. “You cannot and will not ask Mycroft any more personal questions about me. And you most definitely will not send John to do your dirty work. John and I already had this conversation. While I understand the sentiment driving the actions, I cannot condone it. Everything involving Mycroft comes with a price and the price is usually at my expense. I will not have it any longer. If you must know things about me that you cannot deduce with your own ears, eyes and nose, then you may certainly use your mouth and _ask me_.”   

Violet cringed. She had been anticipating this tongue-lashing for quite some time now. The bronchitis and the cases had merely delayed it. “OK, I’m sorry,” she said simply. Then she lifted her eyebrows, “But then you need to use that big brain of yours to understand that when John or I ask you personal questions, it’s not for our personal benefit. It’s either for a case, regarding Moriarty or that we’re just fucking worried about you because you’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I don’t act _weird_.”

“Sherlock, there are one, two, _three_ skulls in your living room alone. You have a diorama of dead bats on your fireplace mantle. I conned you into going to the doctor by letting you keep samples of your _snot_ to study under a microscope. And two days ago, you were having an actual conversation with _the dog_ when I walked in.”

“Helps me think, Gladstone’s a good listener. He doesn’t talk back,” Sherlock grinned at the dog whose head popped up at the sound of his name. Sherlock told the Alsatian that he was a Good Boy in German and the dog let his head flop back down on his front paws.

Then Sherlock grumbled “And Billy is only skull here, if you please,” he pointed to the skull on the mantle with a dramatic flourish.

“And then there’s that poster,” she pointed to the psychedelic picture hanging near the sofa. “And that thing,” she pointed to the bull’s skull wearing headphones. “And I don’t even know what’s going on with the smiley face,” and she pointed up.

“Fine, fine, you made your point. You deduced I have peculiar tastes, gold star for you,”  

“Have I made my point, really? Do you really understand that when we ask you questions, it’s because we give a damn about you? John’s not Mycroft and I’m not Janine.”

“Who?”

“Really?”

Sherlock looked at her blankly.

“Magnussen’s assistant?”

Another blank stare.

Violet held up her left hand, waggled her fingers to show him the diamond ring.

Sherlock just blinked and looked confused.

“She called you Sherly, came out of your bedroom wearing only your shirt while John was here, sold a shit-ton of fake stories to the tabloids about how you’re a complete pervert and how you made her wear the deerstalker  and called her John while you fucked her?”

“Ohhhh…. The Whore.”

“Yeah, her,” Violet shook her head and said, “Wow,” under her breath while rubbing her temples.

“Although, if circumstances had been different, I think we would have been friends,” Sherlock swirled the dregs of his tea around. “She was interesting, Janine. But it’s not _her_ you wish to ask me about. You’ve been dying to ask me for over two weeks now, biding your time until the right opportunity presents itself. John said he won’t be here until nine o’clock but as distracted as he sounded when he called me this afternoon, he will be late by at least thirty minutes. So here is your opportunity,” he lifted his mug to her as if to say, “Cheers.”

A thousand questions flew through Violet’s head. Despite the years she had spent researching Sherlock and his family and the months actually living with him, she still had so many questions. She tried to pin down the one she wanted to ask the most, one that would actually pertain to her. Then she looked over at the bookshelf, the ones she had re-arranged out of spite after Sherlock had been mean to her while they practiced their duets for Molly’s wedding. The one where a copy of the children’s story _The Little Prince_ was kept... a book that hid a particular picture, a faded photograph…  

_… you promised, you promised…I’ll tell… I’ll tell Mummy and Papa… I’ll tell Ford…_  

“Who’s Ford?”

“Mm,” Sherlock set the mug carefully on the coffee table. It wouldn’t do to break John’s mug. He tented his fingers and stared at the ceiling. “The reason why you never found anything about Ford Holmes online was because his first name was Matthew.”

“Oh,” Violet’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember coming across the name _Matthew Holmes_ anywhere in her research.

“You didn’t fail in your research. You wouldn’t have found him. But I am getting ahead of myself. His Christian name was Matthew. I called him Ford.”

He was surprised at the sudden jolt of pain he felt. It almost felt like being shot again. It had been years since he had spoken aloud about this to anyone. He realized that he hadn’t even talked to John about Ford…

… maybe he’d just let Violet repeat the tale to him. Sherlock doubted he could repeat the story.

He inhaled deeply, told himself to stick to the facts and dismiss the sentiment.

“We had both been saddled with unfortunate middle names, Ford and I. Then to add insult to injury, my mother had added ‘Scott’ to my already ridiculously long name. “Scott” was her maiden name, you see. Mycroft used to mock me dreadfully about it, as older brothers tend to do. One day, Mycroft had me nearly in tears as he kept taunting me about how stupid my name was. Ford overheard us, reminded him that _Mycroft_ wasn’t exactly a normal name either and made him clear off. He then told me that he too had a very silly middle name: Sherrinford. It was an amalgamate of his mother’s name. Sherrin Ford. Apparently Aunt Beardy and Uncle Rudy thought they were being very clever. But from that day on, Ford always called me “Sherlock” and I called him ‘Ford’. It was the best I could do at the time. I was only four years old. Sherrinford was a bit much for any child that young to spit out. Mother overheard us calling each other that. She thought it was ‘cute’ and for better and worse, the nickname ‘Ford’ stuck. Everyone continued to call me William until I got older and I made them call me Sherlock.”

“Sorry,” Violet tucked her hair behind her ears “Aunt Beardy?”

“I never met the woman. She and my uncle died while my mother was still pregnant with me. My uncle had married her in an effort to clean up his public image. I had been told it was not a very happy communion.”

“Your uncle did have an…um…” Violet struggled for a tactful answer, “Unconventional lifestyle.” 

“Please,” Sherlock said witheringly. ”He inhaled more coke than I ever did. Back in his glory days, he would have shamed Ozzy Osbourne with all the drugs he did. Then there was the cross-dressing and all the sex he had. Men, women, it didn’t matter to Uncle Rudy. There were even rumours about animals.”

“Ew.”

“Rumours, my dear Violet. Dreamt up by his enemies to be sure,” Sherlock looked at her now. Feeling in control and unemotional, he continued blithely, as if he was reciting ancient British history about some obscure king. “My Uncle Rudy, my father’s oldest and only brother was very liberal, very libertine, very opinionated and very, _very_ rich. Once his friends either had died from overdose or sobered up, the parties got boring. So my uncle became interested in politics. First thing he did was to marry a highly regarded woman with an impeccable reputation.”

“Aunt Beardy,” Violet groaned.

“Mycroft told me once while no one dared to call her that to her face, everyone called her that behind her back. Still, she knew what she was getting into. She had a respectable façade, came from a nice upper-class family and managed to get along with most everyone but Mycroft said when he was the tender age of five, even he realized Sherrin was a gold-digger. Towards the end, she utterly loathed my uncle. But my, did she strike it rich when she became a Holmes.”

“Until she died.”

“Yes, she perished in the same car accident that claimed Uncle Rudy. My uncle made loads of enemies when he was young and wild. When he became older but none the wiser, he made those same enemies very nervous when he decided to run for a seat in the House of Commons. Enemies like the Cullen-Culpeppers.”

“Ah,” Violet saw another piece of the puzzle lock into place. ”The wolves in lambs’ clothing, the Cullen-Culpeppers had been friends with your family for generations.”

“It was never proven that the Cullen-Culpeppers tampered with the brakes to my aunt and uncle’s car,” Sherlock placed his chin on his pointer fingers. “They weren’t even suspects. The Old Earl and Countess of Winchester had been absolutely distraught when my aunt and uncle died. They even offered to adopt Ford, although I suspect it was because they thought Ford was the heir apparent. They were wrong. It was my father. He inherited the lot, the real estates, the businesses, the fortune and Ford, of course. My parents were absolutely delighted to adopt Ford. They had always wanted a large family. But Mother had difficulties conceiving Mycroft and there were at least two miscarriages before me. So they saw Ford as a blessing. Mycroft and I saw Ford as our brother, not our cousin. And we _worshipped_ him.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the sentiment creeping up on him, like rising flood waters. “He was fourteen when he came to live with us. I do not remember a single childhood memory that Ford was not in. I was crushed when he left for university, Mycroft more so. He and Mycroft were equals, despite their age difference. Even though Ford often intervened when Mycroft tried to bully me, he and Mycroft were actually the best of friends. They were both brilliant and adventurous and they would talk late into the night about what they planned on doing when they grew up. They were both quite the outdoorsmen when they were boys as well.”

“Mycroft?” Violet’s voice was heavy with skepticism.

“Oh yes. Despite his girth, Mycroft loved being outdoors, still prefers the country to the city, actually. When he was younger he loved it all, fishing, hiking, boating, archery. I would always want to tag along but Mycroft always shooed me away. ‘You’re too little, William, go home William,’” his voice suddenly took on the cadence of a petulant prepubescent boy.

Then he snorted and sounded like himself when he spoke next. “But Ford always made time for me too. He took me on adventures appropriate for a small boy. When Father was too busy Ford would read storybooks to me and do all the voices. He taught me how to swim and how to ride a horse. He’d take me on nature walks and point out the flora and fauna, teaching me the proper names. He would listen to me natter on and on for hours, he had the patience of a saint. He never ridiculed me, never made me feel like I was different or was odd or…”

_… a freak…_

“… was anything out of the ordinary. He treated me like I was a normal little boy. When he was old enough to drive, he took me to town and treated me to the most mundane of childhood amusements. Pantomimes, puppet shows and whatever insipid animated film that was playing at the cinema. Mmm, but…” his eyes started twinkling, like an aquamarine gem. “He did take me and Mycroft to see _Return of the Jedi_ when he wasn’t supposed to… oh he got a dreadful telling off from our parents. But he was twenty-one and had just come into his trust fund, so he didn’t give a fig that Mother and Father were cross…”

The smile slid off his face. That was the last good memory he had of the Summer of 1983. That was before Ford left for an extended holiday to Spain with his uni friends... and before young Heathcliff had slithered into his small world…    

“My uncle not only set up a trust fund for Ford, but for Mycroft and me as well. At least he had the foresight to do that before my father pissed everything away. The terms of my uncle’s will were quite clear,” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly sharp and precise.

Violet noticed the shift and sat up watching him intently as she listened to him explain: “Everything of my uncle’s was to go to my father and he was to split it equally between the three of us upon his death. However, in seven years since my uncle’s passing, my father nearly lost everything due to his business ineptitude not to mention his supreme gullibility.”

“And here come the Cullen-Culpeppers,” Violet said darkly.

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “The Old Earl did help my father recoup their losses and start amassing a new fortune as well as find someone intelligent enough to handle all the finances. Until Mycroft became of age and he took over, doing a better job than the lackey the Old Earl had suggested.”

He stalled, didn’t know how to go on.

Violet gently prodded him, “Did Ford know about what Heathcliff had done… to you?”

Sherlock’s throat tightened. He crossed his arms against his chest, fighting against his natural impulse to shut this conversation down. “Oh yes,” he finally whispered. “My old nanny, Rose called Ford right after the fire. She knew he and I were close.”

In a vain attempt to frighten the young Heathcliff, Sherlock had slipped into the guestroom the teenage monster had passed out in after a night of too much drink. Six days shy of his eighth birthday, Sherlock had set the bed on fire. But the flames had spread faster than the boy anticipated. Sherlock had fled in terror as his tormentor shrieked in agony.

But, the experiment had worked. Heathcliff never bothered Sherlock again.

In a flat, unemotional voice, Sherlock told Violet, “Ford had been spending the holidays in Ireland with a new girlfriend but he came immediately home when Rose called him. When he found out exactly what had happened, he nearly beat Mycroft to death.”

“Oh my God!”

“He was not permanently damaged, he only had to stay in bed for a week,” Sherlock said dispassionately. “Mother and Father sent Ford away. They had only meant for Ford to stay away for a night or two, just so he would cool down and not try and beat the hell out of Mycroft again. But he stayed away for nearly a fortnight. No one knew where he had been. We later found out he had dropped out of  university and joined the military. When he had leave, the only person he would visit was me. He only stayed for a few days then disappeared again. His visits were utterly unpredictable and he still refused to see anyone other than me. The last time he came to visit was shortly before we permanently moved to London. He came specifically to give me a gift and to say goodbye. I never saw him again.”  

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“My dear Violet, who do you think recruited Mycroft in MI-6?”

Violet’s jaw dropped. “I thought Ford hated him?”

“He was angry at Mycroft, yes. Hated him, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “As far as he was concerned, Mycroft was still just as much his brother as I was. Remember, while both Mycroft and I worshipped Ford, I idolized him as a young child does a hero. To me, Ford was Superman, he was Luke Skywalker. But to Mycroft, Ford was more than a brother. He was his best friend, the only person he really trusted. Ford was the only person Mycroft had ever confided in. Ford convinced Mother and Father to send Mycroft to a proper school instead of teaching him at home. Ford encouraged Mycroft to get involved with public service; although I don’t think what Mycroft does now is what Ford originally had in mind. But Ford knew just how intelligent and cunning Mycroft was. He knew Mycroft would be good. Soon, Mycroft became invaluable. Eventually he became powerful.”

Sherlock lowered his head, closing his eyes. “Ford was caught with four other men, trying to smuggle government secrets out of the country. Ford claimed he was deep undercover, trying to expose the other four men, but the evidence against him was overwhelming. He was quietly tried and convicted of treason in a secret tribunal then hanged.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet wanted to get up and give him a hug.

But he snorted, deterring her impulse. “Sorry? You shouldn’t feel sorry. You should feel terrified.”

“Terrified? Why?”

He opened his eyes and fixed them on Violet’s face. “Mycroft signed off on the execution order.”

The truth didn’t sink in for several seconds. “Wait... what?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh as if he had asked her to do something extremely simple like count to three. “Mycroft signed off on the execution order. Then he eradicated Ford’s identity. He wiped away all trace of Matthew Sherrinford Holmes. He destroyed Ford’s birth certificate. All digital information on Ford was redacted. He even went so far as to force Mother to burn all the family photographs she had of Ford. Mother wept and Father shouted, but Mycroft assured them it was all forCrown and Country.”

Sherlock watched Violet’s face pale then turn gray.

But as the truth sank in, Violet also thought about the photograph Sherlock had managed to save. The Holmes Boys…

_Everyone continued to call me William until I got older and I made them call me Sherlock..._

Mycroft hadn’t been able to delete everything, apparently.

 Violet finally found her voice again “How is that even legal?”

“How is anything Mycroft does _legal_?” Sherlock sneered. “Legality be damned, exile his little brother, hang his best friend. One can die if thousands can live. It’s all for the _Greater Good_.”

“But he saved you with that exile…” Violet breathed. “After the Magnussen shooting.”

“Because he _needed_ me,” Sherlock reminded her. “If I stop being useful to him, do you think he would not hesitate to rescind my stay of execution? Do you finally see now, why you must not ask Mycroft anything about me? Everything about me, even questions, he can use against me. He used my childhood, just the amusing anecdotes, to toy with Moriarty, to tempt him into spilling his dirty secrets. Look how well that went for all involved.”

“That’s bullshit. We have to stop him.”

“I am open to suggestions,” Sherlock said dryly. “Although I must confess, it is noble of you wanting to wage war against Mycroft on my behalf. But, then you also know how I feel about being noble and all that rubbish.”

“I don’t care that you think I’m being stupid. It’s not right, what he’s done to you and Ford.”

“And you. My dear Violet, why do you think you are living a nice, safe life as ‘Miss Smith’? Mycroft needs you too. Once he doesn’t, he plans on deporting you. He has no plans to clear your name before sending you back to America.”

Violet wished she hadn’t eaten anything at all. Her stomach started to hurt again.

“Do you finally understand how dangerous Mycroft is?” Sherlock asked in a low voice.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Do you see how much danger Mary Watson is in right now?”

“Yes,” she whispered again.

“Will you help me to convince her to let me help her? She cannot continue her crusade for Marissa alone. If she keeps going rogue, she’s going to either get herself killed, or worse, John.”

“Yes. I mean, I’ll try… but…” Violet’s voice quavered. “Sherlock? How much time do we have left to find Jim Moriarty?”

“We’ve been granted an extension, but not a long one.”

“OK,” Violet nodded, still gray-faced but her practical nature was re-asserting itself. “Then we need to get leverage on Mycroft. Anything, everything. This… this is wrong. You are just as much an English citizen as the rest of the Greater Good. You deserve the same protection and rights as the people Mycroft claims he’s saving. You deserve to have _A Life_.”

Sherlock felt that strange… _urge_ again… to take her face in his hands and kiss her. He first felt it at Scotland Yard when she gave Sally Donovan a well-deserved dressing down. Then again at Molly and Greg’s wedding, when she came out into the courtyard to check on him when he left the wedding party… and that time he had been so close, all he would have had to do was lower his head just a little bit more and his lips would have brushed hers and…

Yes, the experiment was working.

When he was with Violet, he did not think about Victor

**

5 August 2015  
The Watsons Residence  
Wednesday evening  
8:38 PM

John had completely lost track of time. After spending the afternoon at St. Bart’s with Molly, he had gone straight home and made himself a sorry supper of an egg salad sandwich and some crisps. He then had become completely engrossed in reading the Lady Elise’s medical records (again). Only when he paused to stretch his arms and rub a sore spot on his neck did he glance at the clock on the wall (a wedding gift from Janine, ironically).

“Shit,” John groaned, reaching for his mobile to call a cab and to text Sherlock to tell him he was going to be late. Five seconds later, he received the following text from the Great Detective:

I know – SH

John rolled his eyes.

Shortly before the cab arrived, the front door opened. Mary came inside as John was putting the medical files away in his old messenger bag. “Hello, love,” she said with a warm smile. She wore her navy blue scrubs and white trainers with bright pink laces. 

A million questions exploded in John’s mind. _Where have you been? Where have you really been?  What have you been doing? Have you murdered anyone? Are you going to murder someone? Why didn’t you tell me you think Maisie could be alive? How am I supposed to continue living with a liar like you? How much of ‘Mary’ is a lie? Why did I throw that memory stick into the fire at Christmas?_

_What does AGRA stand for? Who are you, really?_

_Please tell me why I still love you…_

But, remembering his promise to Sherlock, he merely said “Hey,” pretending to be consumed with putting the files in his bag.

Noticing his coolness, she frowned as she dropped her handbag into the armchair. “Everything alright, John?”

_No, it’s_ bloody not alright, _Mary or whoever you are!_ He screamed in his head.

But he mastered his emotions, controlled his rage. “Shoe’s on the other foot, don’t you think? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Oh, I’m not going to be working these crazy hours for much longer, John,” she toed off her trainers and padded sock-footed closer to her husband. Her socks were pink with navy polka dots. “Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?”

This… this was the Mary he had married… and yet… that _other Mary_ existed… lurked just below the surface…

John didn’t know how much more of the duality he could handle.

“Mary,” he loosely linked his fingers together, rested his elbows on his knees. “I love you. But if you keep lying to me, we’re not going to make it.”

“John,” Mary pressed her palms together, as if she was praying. “Please trust me. I just need a bit more time, then I’ll explain everything to you, this… this isn’t like before, with Magnussen.”

“Good because I don’t think Sherlock would consent to wearing a Kevlar vest all the time.”

“John that was uncalled for,” Mary’s blue eyes flashed dangerously.

“A pathetic attempt to lighten the mood, Mary, that’s all,” John sighed, reaching down for his rucksack. “I’m running late. My cab will be here soon.” 

“Are you leaving then?” Mary asked in a dead voice.

“This is an overnight bag, not a separation bag,” John said patiently. “It’s for just in case it gets too late, making it pointless to come back here for only a few hours’ sleep,” he grasped the handle of the messenger bag and went to her.

He kissed her softly on the lips. “Think about what I said, won’t you?”

Then he let himself out, shutting the door behind him quietly.

But Mary didn’t have time to think. Her mobile chimed from within her handbag.

Her secondary mobile. The pre-paid.

“Yes?” she said tensely. “OK, I’m on my way.”  

She dashed upstairs to change out of her scrubs into her AGRA clothes.

This was the telephone call she had been waiting for since her nightmare began.

_Hang on Maisie… Mummy’s coming…_

**

5 August 2015  
The Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew   
Wednesday evening  
9:09 PM

“Burning the midnight oil, Dr. Lestrade?”

Startled, still not used to being called by her married name, Molly looked up from her computer screen, wide-eyed. She relaxed when saw the insufferable Dr. Jamison Bodley, King of the Malapropism, standing in the doorway. His entire body took up the doorway, actually.

“Oh, not much longer,” Molly said brightly. She always made it a point to be nice to him. Everyone else was so mean to him… of course, he did sound like an idiot when he used a large word incorrectly. And he was a bit of an arse in general, but on the other hand, he had been a bit more pleasant ever since he started bonking the charge nurse from Dermatology. Plus, his face had cleared up quite nicely as well. “Just want to finish this up before Greg gets here. He’s working late as well. Figured might as well get some work done instead of sitting at home, watching crap telly.”

Plus, she could only re-arrange the nursery so many times. There was nesting… and then there was being obsessive.

Bodley nodded, as if he was supervisor and he approved of her decision. In reality, they were equals in pay and responsibility. “Will be difficult to work late nights anyway once the little’un comes,” he said sagely, as if he understood the burdens of parenthood.

Molly hid her irritation. Ever since she had started showing, people had been showering her with unsolicited advice about babies, even people like Bodley, who was childless. And Molly knew for a fact he couldn’t keep goldfish alive.

At least he hadn’t randomly reached out to touch her baby bump. That had been the worst. Random people, strangers asking if it was OK to touch her belly, to feel the baby kick…and then there were the rude sods who didn’t even ask, just patted her tummy as if she were a dog. It made her irrationally defensive and uncharacteristically cranky.

Well, not irrationally defensive…

Jim Moriarty was still out there.

Molly shivered.

“You OK, Molly?”

“Yes,” Molly ran her hand over her belly, feeling the Little One wiggling around inside  her. A little night-owl, he was… “Just felt a draft, that’s all,” she pushed back from her desk and gripped the armrest, beginning the arduous chore of Getting Up from Her Chair.

When her obstetrician had told her how much weight she had gained and how big the baby’s head was now, she had nearly wept.

Bodley watched her heft herself out of her seat and waddle over to the peg where a sky-blue cardigan with purple polka dots hung. As Molly put it on, she asked, “Did you need something?”

“Mm, yes, this was put in my in-box in error,” Bodley held out a sunny-yellow envelope. “Was just going to slide it under the door, but here you are.”

“Here I am,” Molly didn’t bother to button the cardigan.

 “Probably a belated wedding card,” he said as he handed it to her. 

“Yes, they are still trickling in.”

“I regret not being able to attend your wedding.”

“Yes, it was a shame,” Molly said, feeling guilty. She had slipped into his office and checked his diary to see if there had been a weekend in July when he was out of town.

“I heard it was quite the sordid.”

Molly blinked at him uncomprehendingly, wondering if he going to finish his sentence. Then she realized he had meant _soirée_. “Ah, sorry, tired, pregnancy brain, bit flighty these days,” Molly attempted to smooth over her blunder. “And yes, it was a fun party,” she gave him one of her patented thousand-watt smiles she tended to produce when nervous or uncomfortable. 

Just because she was nice to him, that didn’t mean she _liked_ him that much.

Plus… Sherlock and Bodley in the same room was a recipe for disaster.

As if he read her mind, he asked sharply, “Say, why did you need my report for the Jane Doe? Not giving confidential information to Holmes, are you?”

“What? No, of course not, and she had been identified. You were on lunch-” _Having a quickie with Peggy from Dermatology_ … Molly thought but didn’t say  out loud “-and Dr. [Choudhury](http://genealogy.familyeducation.com/surname-origin/choudhury) asked me to update the records so the search for next of kin could begin.”

 

That had been true. Dr. Choudhury was their immediate superior and had been put out Bodley wasn’t anywhere to be found. “If shagging Pegs from Derms didn’t make him more affable, I’d be having a word with him,” Dr. Choudhury shrugged. “Molly, do me a favor and handle this since we know who the poor girl is now?”

 

So Molly set to updating the files and out of curiosity, started reading the report and looking at the photographs. Just as Sherlock predicted, she spotted something Bodley had missed.

With sweaty palms, she texted Sherlock, letting him know she had found something regarding the Burned Girls’ case. Ignorant that her husband was giving the Great Detective an epic telling-off, Molly had slipped into the morgue itself, armed with a camera. She had found the drawer where the remains of the just-identified Antonia “Toni” Pandy still lay. Toni had been the youngest of all the victims, only nineteen. Her whole life had still been ahead of her.

Molly had donned blue latex gloves and pulled the drawer open, grunting as she did so. Sliding the door open wasn’t a picnic for her when she wasn’t pregnant so opening it with a massive belly was even less fun. But she hadn’t dared ask for help.

Like the other victims, dental records had been used to identify Toni. Her identity came back a bit more quickly  than the others however. When John had arrived, Molly handed him a penlight, the tiniest of torches.

While holding the dead girl’s jaws open, Molly had instructed John:  “Hold the light for me… just… so, there! See that? Behind her teeth?”

John’s brow had furrowed “What is that, that wire behind her teeth?”

“It’s a permanent retainer. It’s to keep your teeth straight after your braces come off. She was an aspiring actress. Maybe she planned on eventually going to America to become a film star and wanted the ridiculously straight teeth they have. Or maybe she just had really wonky teeth that wouldn’t stay put, dunno. But this made it easier to track down the orthodontist who had applied the retainer to the back of her teeth; that’s how they identified her, poor girl. But look… right… here,” and Molly had pointed with a pair of fine-pointed tweezers.

“There’s… something had gotten caught, in the wire… thread… and bits of fluff?”

“Yeah… I think someone shoved a bit of cloth in her mouth, like a gag, but it got snagged on the wire,” Molly plucked it out and quickly put it in a tube then sealed it. “This might have caused the asphyxiation, actually.”

John had nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. She could have gagged, inadvertently swallowed and then choked on the cloth.”

“I’m going to swab her throat to see if there are any more strands of fiber or fluff and then send the lot to the lads down in the crime lab. Might be for nothing. But if the fabric’s rare or expensive…that might be a lead. Damn, I wish the bodies of the other girls hadn’t been released. I hate to have them exhumed. But if they have had the same cloth down their throat that could definitely link all the murders to the same monster.”

“That might be necessary though,” John had said darkly and then proceeded to tell Molly about the possible connection between the fashion designer Rucastle and the Burned Girls.

“I’ll tell Sherlock, it’s a shame he couldn’t be here, he’d probably be able to tell where that fabric strand came from exactly and the year it was woven, but Violet’s in a bit of a jam and she needed his help. Can you email me the pictures you took before I arrived?”

Molly had said yes, of course and John, sweet man, had kissed her on the cheek, told her she was fantastic and she was never allowed to go on holiday ever again. Or maternity leave. “Just get one of those harness things and take the tyke everywhere,” he had teased her before leaving. He had also, mercifully, refrained from touching her belly.

So Molly rationalized she really wasn’t lying to Bodley. She hadn’t given any information to Sherlock… directly that is.

But Bodley still stared at her suspiciously, running his tongue over the top of his teeth with his mouth closed. Molly realized he had used the incorrectly delivered greeting card as a ruse to come to her office. It had probably been sitting on his desk for quite some time.

“I don’t appreciate you perching my cases,” he finally said. “Just because you got up the duff by a DI doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you pleas-”

Before Bodley finished his sentence, Molly’s hand suddenly gained a life of itself own. Before she was even fully aware of what she was doing, she had slapped Bodley soundly on his cheek.

“Get out,” Molly’s normally kind eyes flashed furiously. When Bodley stood there, hand to his reddening cheek, staring at her open-mouthed, she yelled, “GET OUT.”

It wasn’t a shriek or a scream or a screech.

Molly had just discovered her Mother-is-Angry Shouting Voice. 

Bodley crept out backwards, his round eyes even rounder than before. Belatedly, he realized he’d quite possibly lost the only friend he had in Pathology. But he was too small of a man to apologize. And deep down, he knew he must have made some sort of a cock-up on the Burned Girls case to have his reports re-examined by Molly, someone he had always dismissed as a stupid little girl. Mooning over _The Great Consulting Detective_.

As he retreated, Bodley thought spitefully: _If I didn’t know better, I’d say Holmes knocked Hooper up. I don’t give a toss what that dim PA said in the rags last summer, the man’s either a fairy or a robot. And we all know that “Miss Smith” is just a beard, don’t we…_   

But Bodley reminded himself he did know better and it might be in his best interest to update his C.V. Especially if she decided to make a sexual discrimination complaint. Even though she had hit him, they’d take her side, of course. She was a prominent Detective-Inspector’s wife now and confidante of the Great Consulting Detective. Of course they’d take her side. 

Just as well. He hated London anyway… he’d do better as a coroner in a small village.

Idly, he wondered how Peggy felt about leaving London… she was nice, Peggy…

Meanwhile Molly fumed. She glared at Bodley until he turned and disappeared down the hall. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been this angry. Not even Sherlock’s tumble off the wagon last summer had triggered this level of pure, unadulterated rage. _Horrible man,_ she thought, tears stinging her eyes suddenly. _Sexist_ prick _, how dare he_ …

Molly realized she was crumpling the card in her hand. She unclenched her fists, blinked the tears away and waddled back to her desk. She put the card down on the desk and tried to smooth it back out.

Then she reached for her letter opener, made a neat slit and pulled the card out.

It was not a Congratulations on Your Wedding card.

It was a Congratulations on the New Baby card.

Molly shook her head, confused. She hadn’t had any baby showers yet, although Maggie said she’d plan one… then Maggie unexpectedly took a sabbatical. Her mother was desperately ill, dying actually, and she had to take a leave of absence.

Molly opened the card.

Then she gasped in horror, dropped the card to the floor and clasped her hands over her mouth.

The photograph that had been included in the card slid across the floor a bit.

She skirted around the card and photo, as if they could come to life and attack her. As quickly as her pregnant body allowed her to move, she hurried to her office door, shut it and locked it.

Shaking from head to foot, she retreated to her desk, her eyes looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. Spying her letter opener, she grabbed it and clasped it like a dagger.

She scrolled through her Contracts list on her smartphone until she found her husband’s name and hit Dial. She put the mobile on speaker and silently begged him to answer.

He answered on the third ring “Hi sweetheart, was about to call you, I’m probably going to be another hour, bloody paperwork. If you want to head home, I underst-”

“ _No_ ,” Molly cried out, not fighting the tears now. “Greg, please. Come to St. Bart’s. Come now.”

“Molly, what’s wrong, what has happened? Is it the baby?”

Molly sobbed, “Just come get me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... so yeah, I was abducted by Real Life. Hope the extra chapter this week makes up for it!


	15. When Skies Are Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Softly, he began to sing the same song to her as his mother had sung to him and his sister Harry when they were small… 'You are my sunshine, my only sunshine… you make me happy, when skies are grey…'" 
> 
> Lots of angst, lots of violence, lots of gore. Trigger warnings.
> 
> Happy Sunday!

Chapter Fifteen: When Skies Are Grey

5 August 2015  
The Lestrades’ Residence  
Wednesday night  
10: 37 PM

It was all hands on deck at Greg and Molly Lestrade’s flat.

Sherlock, John, Violet and Gladstone were all crammed into a black cab.

When Sherlock received the panicked call from Lestrade, John had texted Mary. Just when he was about to give up on getting a response from her, she had replied she would meet them at Greg and Molly’s.

Mary had to park across the street and was leaning against her car when the black cab pulled up. She thanked God she’d had the foresight to bring a change of clothes along with her in case she’d had to switch back into Mary Watson mode. She wore a loose pink t-shirt, capris and trainers. Very Mary Watson-ish.

_We certainly are a band of misfits, aren’t we?_ Mary thought wryly as she watched the rest of the Baker Street Irregulars exit the cab.

Violet unfortunately hadn’t had a chance to change out of the ridiculous outfit she had to wear at the Rucastles’, but she had at least put ballet flats on instead of the stupid high heels. Still, it was comedic to watch her struggle to get out of the cab in her skin-tight skirt. Sherlock, of course, wore his usual dashing suit and John was in his usual comfortable rumpled jeans and shirt with his well-worn brown shoes.

Sherlock did not even bother to greet Mary. His words were crisp, clipped and to the point. “After we all observe the nursery, John and Violet, you two go out and canvass the neighborhood. Treat it like a battlefield. Take Gladstone. Mary, talk to Molly. Ask her again exactly what happened. Come along,” and he turned his back on them all.

“Shouldn’t I go with John?” Mary asked, bridling a little.

“Maybe it would be better if I speak to Molly?” Violet Smith added while thinking, _Since I am the interrogator and all_ …

“Molly knows Mary better than you, Violet. She’ll feel more at ease opening up to her.”

That pacified both women. Put that way, it made more sense.

There was no police tape and only one panda car parked out front along with a forensic van. But Sergeant “Call Me Alex” MacDonald waited for all of them right out the front door. “Lestrade called me as a favor,” she said in her usual brusque manner. Then she tilted her head, indicating they needed to follow her.

When the lift doors opened, the Baker Street Irregulars found Greg and Molly in hallway. Greg held Molly as close to him as possible. Molly’s eyes were very red.

Violet let Gladstone off his leash and said “ _Aus_ ,” and the dog trotted out of the lift, nose to the ground. He wasn’t the friendly house pet, he was On the Job. 

_Bloody hell_ , Greg thought. _That’s a fucking police dog. I knew she had an Alsatian, but that’s a trained police dog. Why exactly does a former PA have a_ police dog? _There is more to this woman… I feel like I should know who she is. Her voice is so damn familiar…_

Now was not the time to ask her though.

“Thanks for coming,” Greg said hoarsely. Sherlock walked right past the pair of them, disciplining himself to ignore the fear and pain the mother of his child was in right now. He ordered himself to channel all of his brainpower and observational skills on this latest crime.

John paused to apologize, as usual, for Sherlock’s rudeness but Greg shook his head “Just go, it’s OK… he’s just being… _him_.”

Molly nodded as tears started streaming down her face again. She tightened her arms around Greg and buried her face in his chest. One of her worst nightmares had come true.

_Someone_ bad _has  been in my home… someone…_ evil.

Violet smiled sympathetically at Molly and Greg then said in a stern voice, “ _Komm zu mir,”_ to Gladstone. Mary gave Molly an encouraging pat on her shoulder and they quickly followed Sherlock and John into the flat.

Two uniformed officers were milling around the flat, searching. They respectfully got out of the Baker Street Irregulars’ way once Gladstone entered the room, his nose twitching, his ears straight up.

Alex had slipped in behind them. “No forced entry,” she quietly to John as Sherlock stalked over to the sofa, stood on it, hands on hips and surveyed the room.

“Who’s doing forensics?” John asked, just as quietly as Sherlock jumped down.

He hated this. Hated seeing the flat turned upside-down like this. After his self-imposed isolation had ended, John had spent many nights in this very flat as Greg helped him recover from The Fall. They had sat in this very lounge and  worked together to clear Sherlock’s name posthumously. They had watched football games together and drank beer like normal men, normal mates. During the brief quiet interlude after Mary had gotten out of the hospital and before Violet had entered their lives, Greg and Molly had invited the Watsons over for supper now and again and it had been fun. One night, Sherlock had even joined them all. Molly had made a roast. They had played _Cards Against Humanity (_ Sherlock won, of course _)_. It should have been awful, but it had turned out to be a really nice night.

In short, for John the Lestrades’ flat was just as much of  a sanctuary as 221B Baker Street was.

_Nothing is sacred_ , he clenched his teeth as they walked single file down the hallway towards the room that had been made over for the coming baby.

“MacPherson,” Alex answered John’s question, bringing him back to the present. “New kid.”

 The “new kid” was taking pictures as Sherlock led everyone into the nursery. John frowned at MacPherson. He looked like a ruddy hipster with his black spectacles and his long yet neatly trimmed beard. All that was missing was the testicle-crushing skinny jeans and the t-shirt with an ironic slogan across the chest. But the young man was wearing neatly pressed trousers and a proper dress shirt and plastic booties over his nice black loafers. Of course, the sleeves of that shirt were pushed up and all the tattoos covering his arms were clearly visible.

MacPherson finished taking snaps of whatever was in the crib then straightened up. “Hey Alex,” he said to short, silent woman standing next to Mary Watson. Then he noticed Gladstone next to Violet and grinned a little. “Cool dog. Guess that means you’re Violet Smith.”

“Leave,” Sherlock snapped.

“And that makes you Sherlock Holmes,” MacPherson put the cover on the camera lens. “I was warned and I’m getting out of your way, no worries. Hope you all have strong stomachs. It’s not pretty what the tosser did to that cot. Can’t compete with your brains, Mr. Holmes, but I’ll do my best to answer any of your questions.”

“Thank you,” John said softly and he felt Mary slip her hand into his. He squeezed her hand gently in response.

“Welcome, Dr. Watson, Mrs. Watson,” MacPherson picked up his camera equipment and sauntered out, cool as a cucumber.

“Lestrade’s fussy now about who’s on his team,” Alex informed everyone.

“About time,” John grumbled.

Alex actually produced a smile then left the room so Sherlock could work.

They all eyed the white crib with the bright yellow bunting.

“Let’s get this over with,” Mary said in a strained voice.

“Right,” John said.

“Gladstone, _Komm zu mir,”_ Violet ordered her dog again, who was sniffing the new toy box.

The detective, the doctor, the agent, the assassin and the dog circled around the crib.

The sheets and mattress were completely saturated with blood.

A white teddy bear for the baby from Lestrade’s mother was flecked with blood.

Poor old Toby lay in a puddle of red. His entrails had been mercilessly yanked out.

Violet took one look, then turned on her heel and bolted from the room. Her hand was over her mouth as she ran. Gladstone whined then hurried after her.

“Mary, she’s been ill. Please see to her,” Sherlock said detachedly as he studied the dead cat.

Mary took one revolted look at the gutted cat, then went to find to Violet.

“Jesus Christ,” John said faintly when the women had left. “How awful, but who is being targeted? Greg or Molly?”

“Me,” Sherlock whispered.

“What?”

“This is directed at me.”

“How’n the hell are you getting _that_?”

Sherlock pointed at the intestines. “Violin strings used to be made from catgut, even though the actual intestines used to make the strings came from cattle. It’s believed that catgut is an abbreviation of cattle gut. Be a bit too obvious to bring a bull in here to put in the crib.”

“Why in the crib?” John asked despite himself. He found himself remembering doing a standard physical for an older gentleman, a jovial man in his mid to late sixties. A man with the face and hair of an old lion and a kindly smile… who had calmly informed John about how much he had admired him instead of the Great Consulting Detective… and that they were holding the Great Consulting Detective prisoner…

_Also, please extend Miss Hooper my congratulations on the new baby. Since she was such a_ Special Friend _to Jim Moriarty, we have taken a bit of an interest in her and her welfare, and her offspring, of course. Shame no one knows who the father is… but there are theories… very interesting theories… He was spotted entering Miss Hooper’s block of flats very late in the evening last January. He didn’t leave until later the following afternoon… it fits the timeline, don’t you think…?_

“Moriarty,” John breathed.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock placed his hand on the railing of the crib.

_My son was supposed to sleep here,_ he thought, feeling his iron-strong control slipping as he curled his fingers around the railing as tightly as he could. _My son was supposed to be_ safe _here…_

Sherlock decided he would not deliver Moriarty to MI-6 like he had promised Mycroft.

“I’ll help you,” John said softly.

Sherlock looked down at his best friend. “No,” he said firmly, deducing exactly what John meant to help him do. 

“Yes,” John said, his hands behind his back, standing at attention. “I’ll help you kill the bastard.”

Sherlock knew there would be absolutely nothing he could do or say to dissuade John. 

So he merely looked away from John and fixed his eyes on the dead cat again. But he reached out to grasp John on the shoulder just as a drowning man clings to a buoy for dear life.

**

6 August 2015  
Westaways Cortege  
Thursday morning  
12:10 AM

Melissa “Missy” Stroper drummed her ink pen against her coffee mug. Bit her lip and looked up at the clock, half-annoyed, half-afraid.

All the girls had reported in and had confirmed they not only were safe and sound, but that they had also been paid for their work tonight.

All, except the new girl Sapphire.

And Sapphire was _green_ , the greenest girl she had hired yet. Greener than that other one who had quit after the crazy lady assaulted her… what was her name, oh yes. Destiny.

Destiny was so green Missy honestly couldn’t tell if she was still a virgin or merely daft.

But old men do like the innocent looking girls. Even more so if they seem to only have two brain cells rolling around their pretty heads.

_You have five minutes Saffy_ , Missy thought, taking the pen cap off and sticking  it in her mouth like a cigarette. Chewing on the cap, she thought again, _You have five minutes before I call the cops_. She wondered again if she should start instituting the Two-for-the-Price-of-One Special again in order to guarantee the girls’ safety since the coppers  hadn’t  caught that nutter going around kidnapping the actresses and burning them up. So many of her girls were actresses…

Sapphire had said she was an actress… _God help us_ …

But it was bad for business, the Two-for-One. The girls bitched about sharing pay and she lost money as well.

Of course, the old duffers thought Two-for -One was just grand. _Ménage à trois_  and all that. 

She frowned. Her girls were not prostitutes. She did not run a brothel. Her girls were clean-cut young ladies hired by rich old men who wanted arm candy during photo-ops and glamorous parties. Most of the chaps who used her company probably couldn’t get it up if they consumed an entire bottle of Viagra.

What the little sluts did on their own time was none of her concern, of course, unless they got caught. Then immediate termination, of course. Same with drug use; if a girl wanted to get lit while in the privacy of her own flat, fine. Getting high on the job, unacceptable. Loads of girls had been fired, actually. Loads more quit, especially when they realized that this was actually _work_ , that they had to do more than just stand there in a pretty frock. Turn-over was such a bitch, but for every girl who  walked out, there were  five more waiting. 

Still the cops were always sniffing around her business, trying to prove she was the madam of a notorious whorehouse.

Missy caught a reflection of her fifty-two year old face in the clock, smiled ironically and ran her fingers through her fading blonde hair. _Do I look like a fucking madam?_

She looked like someone’s granny actually. She wore reading glasses and pink jumpers.

And she wasn’t even the owner, she was the manager.

Sniffing around or not, she would call the cops if Saffy did not call in the next few minutes…

As if on cue, her telephone rang. Missy spat the pen cap out of her mouth.

“Westaways,” she said as primly as her graveled voice allowed. She had started smoking at age thirteen and had quit for good three years ago. 

“Hi Missy, it’s Sapphire,” a cheerful voice chirped in her ear.

“How are things?”

“Brilliant,” Sapphire said promptly.

Missy closed her eyes in relief. If Sapphire had been in trouble, she would have said everything was Fantastic. “Heading home then?”

“Yeah, my dogs are barking, bloody high heels. Listen, I’m going to be out of town the next few days, am I on the schedule for anything? Do I need to trade with someone?”

Missy reached for her smartphone and hit the Calendar app. “You don’t work until next Tuesday, so if you can’t make it, it’s your responsibility to find someone to take your shift.”

There was a pause then Sapphire said in her cheery voice, “No problem, I should be back by then, but if not, I’ll get it covered.”

“Right, and the cheque?”

“I’ll put it in the drop-box first thing tomorrow morning, I’m shagged, Missy. I just want to go home and sleep, is that OK or do I need to come now?”

“No, first thing tomorrow is OK,” Missy swallowed a yawn.  Her business forced her to be a night-owl. She usually did her bookkeeping and scheduling while waiting for her girls to notify her that their assignment was finished and they were safe. “But Saffy? Next time you need to call immediately when the job’s done. I nearly called the coppers to go looking for you.”

“Won’t happen again,” Sapphire said, a bit of the brightness leaving her voice now.

“Don’t sulk. It’s for your own good. Get some sleep.” 

“Right, later Missy.”

“Good-night Sapphire,” Missy rang off, stood up and arched her back. 

She looked at the stacks of headshots and applications on her desk.

Then her eyes roved back to her email Inbox and saw various emails from several of her girls. The subject lines all said about the same thing: “I Quit”, “Two Weeks Notice”, Separation from Service”, “Fuck this Shit”,  “Fuck You”, etc… etc…

This madmen kidnapping and killing girls had everyone spooked. And that nutty lady who assaulted Destiny hadn’t helped matters at all. Three girls quit on her when that story got out even though that particular customer had been put on The Black List.

She was going to have to go through the pile of headshots and determine which ones to send to the owner so he could start the round of interviews again.

She also hoped Sapphire would stick around.

**

6 August 2015  
Jepthro Rucastle’s Residence  
Thursday morning  
9:10 AM

Despite last night’s excitement, Violet still managed to drag herself out of bed (or off the sofa actually), shower, dress and go to the Rucastles’.

Edward hadn’t wanted to get out of bed this morning and it had been a nightmare to get him to brush his teeth and change from his pyjamas to his t-shirt and shorts. He had also bolted his breakfast and disappeared from the kitchen table before either Violet or Mrs. Toller could stop him. “Blast it, if that rotten brat disturbs Mrs. Rucastle,” Mrs. Toller had seethed.

Violet had given the old bitch a foul look. “What a dreadful thing to say,” Violet Smith snapped before a cold, cruel smile curled up on her lips. “Mr. Rucastle will hear about it,” she had purred before excusing herself to leave the table.

She had been grateful to have an excuse not to finish her tea. Her stomach was still off from the other day, and seeing the eviscerated cat last night had not helped one bit. During her FBI career, she had been exposed to crime scenes and so had witnessed blood and guts before. Something about that poor dead kitty though made the meagre  meal she had eaten come right back up again.

Violet wondered since she was the only one who took milk with her tea if Mrs. Toller was letting it sour before serving it to her. Then she dismissed the thought since Edward always had milk with his cereal and didn’t complain about the taste. And that rotten brat would complain if his food tasted funny.

Mrs. Toller waited for Violet at the bottom of the staircase. “Master Edward is in the garden.”

“Mm, thank you Mrs. Toller,” Violet kept her voice light and casual as she majestically swept past the stringy old hag.

“Ah… will we be mentioning the earlier unpleasantness to Mr. Rucastle?” Mrs. Toller called out a bit anxiously, but Violet ignored her as she made her way upstairs.

Out of curiosity, she poked her head into Tristan Holloway Rucastle’s massive suite, but shut the door again as a powerful stench hit her. The room smelled like body odor and wet dog hair. Violet found herself gagging again as her stomach twisted. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

When Mary had found her hovering over the toilet in the Lestrades’ bathroom, she had asked in a whisper if a delicate stomach was part of the “Violet Smith” story. When Violet had shook her head, Mary asked, “Not to pry, but it is possible that you could be expecting as well?”

“Expecting what…oh,” Violet had put the lid down on the toilet. Then, not wanting to get into a lengthy explanation why that was not possible, she lifted her blouse so Mary could see the laparoscopy scars from her tubal ligation. “No babies,” Violet Hunter had whispered.  

“No surprises,” Mary had whispered, a half-envious, half-sad look crossing her face.

Then Mary had left her in peace to go talk to Molly some more.

Now, alone (for the most part), Violet again found herself tempted to snoop around the house. Unfortunately if something happened to Edward while she was poking around, she would definitely be up shit creek without a paddle.

Plus, as unpleasant as he was, Edward was just a little boy who might have severe psychological problems and who might need professional help. So Violet sighed and continued her search. Lady Elise’s murder was a cold case. As far as anyone knew, there weren’t any new missing actresses. The cases could wait a bit while Violet looked for an upset boy.

“Eddie?” Violet called, walking down the curving staircase, now carrying the pair of trainers she had brought with her. Her uniform be damned, she’d  wear the stupid blouses, the ludicrous skirts and the goddamned scarf, but she refused to wear high heels when taking Edward outside to play or for his constitutionals or whatever…

Toeing off her patent leather high heels, Violet slid her feet into her trainers and went outside through the backdoor. Once out, she looked around the massive courtyard.  She squinted her eyes behind her fake spectacles, searching. _If that bitchy old woman is playing a trick on me just to make me look incompetent, I’ll drown her in a vat of_ White Diamonds, Violet fumed.

The garden, like everything else in Rucastle’s world, was oversized, flamboyant and decidedly not child-friendly. The privacy walls looked more like prison walls. The shrubbery was all trimmed into animals that would have looked at home in a Tim Burton movie. All the potted flowers were not only insanely high-maintenance but also had no business being in England during a heat wave. It was probably costing Rucastle a fortune trying to keep the damn plants alive. And in the middle of the garden stood a tacky marble fountain with a plaster copy of Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s sculpture _The Rape of Proserpine_ on top of it. Complete with the three-headed hound Cerberus, the middle head barking wildly. Water came out of all three of Cerberus’s mouths. This Proserpine seemed more distressed than the one in the parlor.  She also had even less clothing than the Proserpine in the painting. The entire thing was ghastly.

There was nowhere in the garden for Edward to play. No playhouse, no swing-set, no sandbox and the fountain itself was a recipe for disaster…

Violet’s stomach lurched and she ran to the fountain, half-expecting to find the boy in a dead-man’s float. She peered into the pool. There was nothing in the water except about a dozen koi fish, swimming lazily.

Violet rolled her eyes. _Fucking fish…_

She stepped away from the fountain, looked around. Then she whipped her head around, catching motion out of the corner of her eye. “Eddie?”

She approached the bush trimmed into a rabbit that vaguely reminded Violet of Frank the Bunny from the cult film _Donnie Darko_ , a guilty pleasure from her college days.

Awkwardly she got down on her hands and knees once by the bush. The skirts really were cumbersome. She didn’t care how _trendy_ they were. If she was going to be running around after a six-year-old, she needed to be able to _move_.

Not giving a damn whether or not she got grass stains  on her skirt, Violet crawled closer to the boy. “Eddie, what’s wrong?” she crooned, noticing his hunched shoulders.

“Go ‘way.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Violet gently admonished the boy. “Come now, what’s the matter? Why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad,” the boy spat, turning his head to glare at her. “You’re stupid. Just like all the other girls.” He looked away again, hugging the box to him. “Girls are stupid,” he said again.

“You think that now. But there will come a time, when you get a bit older, when you will think girls are quite nice.” _What other girls?_ Violet thought desperately.

The boy turned around again. Violet felt a violent impulse to push the boy away from her. She had never seen that level of hatred in a child’s eyes. She nearly performed The Sign of the Cross, something she hadn’t done since she was a child herself, when her father had made her and Michael continue going to Mass after their mother’s death.

“I will never think girls are nice,” he promised her.

Uneasily, Violet said to the boy, “Eddie, I must insist you tell me at once what is wrong. Or else I will be forced to call your father.”

“No! Don’t! Don’t call Daddy, he’ll get cross.”

“Then what is wrong, Eddie?”

“Little Carlo is gone,” the boy said flatly.

“Gone? Your puppy is missing?”

“He’s gone.”

Violet pushed her fake glasses up her nose and pursed her lips, studying the unemotional boy. When she had been a little girl, she had wept when her pet goldfish had died. This kid acted like a pencil was missing instead of his puppy…

… but that flash of… _evil_ … in his eyes…  Violet wasn’t religious by a long shot and she had her Masters in psychology so she fully understood what laymen would consider _evil_ was mostly caused by diseases of the mind and psyche, not the devil… _but still_ …

She felt her skin crawl… her spidey sense tingled…

But she heard Sherlock’s voice, _Data, data, data…_

Violet had studied criminal justice as well as psychology at graduate school, specifically to beef up her resume so she could earn a spot at Quantico. Therefore child psychology was really not her forte. Reluctantly, she found herself beginning to create a profile for the sullen little boy as if he were a  criminal. But as her old boss Section Chief Robert Carson once said, “Intuition is great Vi, but it proves jack shit.”

“Do you think he ran away?” Violet asked. “We can look for him if he’s lost. Make posters. Knock on doors and ask if anyone has seen Little Carlo.”

“No,” the boy stood up, his eyes smoldering with irrational hatred again. “He’s just gone. His barking bothered Mummy so now he’s gone and Mummy can sleep again.”

_Jesus Christ, with all the drugs that bitch has on board, a chorus of lions roaring wouldn’t wake that zombie up_ , Violet thought. _She is so stoned she doesn’t even shower..._

Her intuition tingled again, ever so slightly.  Like one lone note played on a piano. Or one violin string plucked. _Is Tristan stoned… or is she being drugged?_

She filed that suspicion away for later. That could be the connection between Lady Elise and Tristan. Alice had said her father was a narcissistic arsehole and a control freak. So far, Alice hadn’t been wrong. _Perhaps both women had been force-fed drugs to control them?_ Violet mused for a moment. _Alice did say her mother thought she was losing her mind… maybe Lady Elise had been given mind-altering drugs… perhaps those drugs had the convenient side effect of suicidal tendencies? Meanwhile, Tristan, formerly a wild child, just needs to be subdued…_

She made a mental note to text John later, to check the toxicology again. Sherlock would insist on hard data, and rightfully so. One couldn’t convict someone because they felt a flutter in their stomach or their left ear lobe itched on a Wednesday. Instinct is good. Evidence is better.

Evidence like… a puppy that was supposedly disturbing the second Mrs. Rucastle…a puppy that Mrs. Toller loathed. And Mrs. Toller, as primary caretaker, obsessively hovered over the second Mrs. Rucastle, making sure she wasn’t disturbed. Making sure she was “happy.”

Carefully choosing her next words so she wouldn’t lead the child, she asked “Where do you think Carlo has gone then?”

“Away.”

“Could he just be hiding?”

“No. He’s gone.”

“Sweetie, are you sure he didn’t just run off maybe? Did someone leave the door open by accident?” _Or on purpose…?_

“No. He’s _gone_ , OK?”  

“But how is he gone? Do you think someone took Little Carlo to a new home?”

“Nobody _took_ him. He doesn’t _have_ a new home.”

“Oh. OK, then…why do you think he’s missing then if he didn’t run away or-”

Edward became visibly agitated and he interrupted her interrogation with a shout, “He’s just gone, OK? Mummy _needs_ her sleep, so Little Carlo is _gone_.”

“Eddie…”

“NO,” he yelled, covering his ears with his hands, starting to rock back and forth.

“Eddie, please,” Violet put her hand on his shoulder but he pushed her away. “It’s OK to be upset about Little Carlo. He was your friend. You loved him.”

“I love Mummy more,” he informed her, completely dry-eyed. His face was fierce and dark, not sad and hurting.

_Oh God…_

“And now she can sleep again,” he added proudly.

_Oh my holy God…_ Violet looked at her hand, where Edward had bitten her.

Remembered how happy he looked when he crushed a cockroach with his shoe.

_“_ Eddie…” Violet couldn’t believe she was about to ask a child this. “Where is the body?”

The child gave her a malevolent smile. “ _Gone_.”

_My God,_ Violet sat up on her knees, her stomach twisting as if she did indeed drink milk that had turned. _He killed the puppy_. 

Most serial killers get their start as children who tortured and killed animals.

**  
6 August 2015  
En route to Maggie Jenner’s residence  
Thursday morning  
10:05 AM

_People truly are unobservant_ , Sherlock marveled at the general idiocy of people as he drove a nice but slightly battered van into the suburbs, where Maggie Jenner and her two children supposedly lived.

Of course Sherlock knew how to drive and actually owned several vehicles of all different makes, models and conditions. He had them carefully concealed in various neighborhoods in London, near his bolt-holes, of course.

He usually didn’t drive in London because he had the worst case of road rage imaginable. The stupidity of motorists and pedestrians on the roads would inevitably wind him up into such a frenzy he would be intolerable to be around for days.

The van Sherlock currently drove looked like any other repair van that could be seen in London and the surrounding areas. He kept it in good order, but not too good order. Too pristine and it would be remembered, just the same as if it would have been too beaten up. If seen, no one would question it. Before heading out to the suburbs, Sherlock had hung signs of a heating and cooling repair service popular in London and the surrounding areas. He congratulated himself for having the foresight of nicking the signs a few years ago. Easy, really. The signs were just the logo of the repair shop attached to the side of another van via magnets.

And now, he looked like just a regular bloke driving a regular repair van out on the job. Probably off to fix a broken air conditioner, a necessity in this unusual heat wave.

Once he was off the motorway and on residential roads, Sherlock focussed less on his driving and more on the case at hand. 

After recommending to Greg and Molly that they should move immediately, Sherlock began formulating a theory based on the data Mary had pulled from Molly while she had been attempting to comfort her as well as based upon his own research. Random pieces of data to be sure… but…still… as he drove, Sherlock reviewed the facts again:

Fact: There was no forced entry.

Fact: No one unusual had been spotted loitering around the flat.

Fact: Maggie Jenner was Molly’s friend.

Fact: Maggie had watched Toby the cat on several occasions.

Relevant Fact: Molly had gone out with “Jim from IT” before we knew he was Jim Moriarty.

Interesting Fact: Molly and Maggie became friends shortly after I had returned from my  Great Hiatus. A Hiatus caused by Jim Moriarty.

Even More Interesting Fact: Maggie Jenner had also been friends with Jennifer Kay Boyle, the young NICU nurse who had been responsible for caring for Marissa Watson. Jennifer was murdered by Mycroft’s PA Anthea. Confirmation of this fact is courtesy of Agent Hunter.

Extremely Interesting Fact: Mary had attempted to hide her involvement with Maggie’s abrupt sabbatical from Pediatrics when she reported to me what she had learned from Molly. Mary’s voice had pitched up one-quarter of an octave as it always does when she lies.

Extremely Dangerous Fact: Mary continues to search for Marissa even though she has reason to believe my brother had the infant abducted.

Hypothesis: Maggie Jenner befriended a NICU nurse who cared for John Watson’s daughter and a pathologist who has an extensive history with me. She befriended the pair of them in order to keep tabs on John and me . Also because of this friendship, she gained access to Grimlock and Molly’s flat during their Sex Holiday. Toby would have recognized and trusted Maggie because she had fed him in the past. The neighbors would also recognize and trust Maggie. They would just assume she was there to feed the cat. Therefore Maggie would have a plausible explanation why her fingerprints were in the flat. As to why exactly Maggie was told to kill a cat  as a warning to me that I need stop searching for Moriarty… logical. She works for _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase._ The London cell is rebuilding.

Postscript to Include a Recently Discovered Fact: Jennifer told Maggie she had proof Marissa Watson had not died but had been abducted. After paying a visit to the recently departed Nurse Boyle’s flat this morning, there is no sign of this proof anywhere. Either the proof was stolen or it never existed. If it never existed, then someone had panicked and threw this entire plan into motion instead of Doing Their Research.

Sherlock filed the data away in one of the many rooms of his grand and glorious Mind Palace and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as the van puttered into the suburbs.

He turned on the radio, twiddled with the old tuning dial. He grinned when he found a station playing Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_ , specifically the “Summer” movement.

Everyone knew and praised the “Spring” movement, but ahh… _Summer_. Lovely.

His grin widened, like a Cheshire cat. Despite the blood and setbacks, this was really turning out to be a fine summer indeed…these cases… _oh these cases_. Magnificent.

Sherlock hummed along with the music as he turned right and headed down the street Maggie supposedly lived in … at least according to the computer records he had just obtained.

Sherlock easily hacked into St. Bart’s personal records last night after Violet had fallen asleep on the sofa. He had put a small bin next to her head in case she was sick again, ran his hand over her hair and then had Gone to Work. He pulled not only Maggie’s address from St. Bart’s “confidential” employers’ records, but her bank account information as well. How convenient that she had her pay Automatically Deposited.  

He didn’t shave this morning so he had a slight bit of scruff going on. He slicked his unruly curls back with an inordinate amount of hair product he stole from Violet; a sloppy gelatinous goop she used to straighten her own curls. It felt and smelt dreadful; Sherlock couldn’t wait to wash his hair when he got finished.

Instead of his designer suits, he now wore crumpled overalls, a ball cap and workman’s boots. Then he put on a pair of sunglasses to his blue-green-golden eyes. He had fished out his toolbox again and he looked like a guy who repaired things for a living. An Everyday Bloke.

Sherlock pulled into the driveway of Maggie Jenner’s house, turned the van off. It was a small house, identical to all the other small houses in this particular suburb. The lawns were all neatly mowed but no extravagant landscaping. A few of the front gardens were littered with toys, again nothing dear. Plastic dolls missing their clothes and half-deflated footballs. Others had newspapers piling up on their front steps. A pleasant neighborhood to be sure, but it was nothing posh. Affordable housing for New-Marrieds and Recently-Divorced-with-Kids. They could make the house payment and still afford to go on a small summer holiday.

Whistling under his breath, he pulled on his gloves. Then he hefted the toolbox up and out of the van then walked up to the front door. Noticed the drapes were drawn. Lifted his hand to ring the doorbell but then he stopped himself.

Immediately he knew something was amiss.

He inhaled sharply. He knew that smell, even as faint as it was through the door.

Blood.

Old, congealed blood.

He took a step back, pulled out his mobile, pretending to be checking the address. In reality, he was checking the entire building, looking for any sign of life. A flutter of a curtain, a light being turned off.

There was nothing.

Sherlock subtly pulled his lock pick kit out of his pocket and in two seconds had jimmied open the front door.

The smell of death hit him like a blast of hot air from a furnace. _Why haven’t the neighbors noticed?_ His black brows furrowed together and his mouth turned down.

He looked behind him again. Observed the forgotten, neglected toys on the front gardens and the pyramids of newspapers on the front stoops.

Obvious. It’s July. Everyone is out to escape the heat. Either on an extended holiday or at the nearest lido. _Oh yes, Violet is taking Edward swimming tomorrow_ …

He kicked the door shut behind him and put the toolbox down. He took out a hammer to use as a weapon if necessary and entered the darkened lounge. Moving stealthily, Sherlock’s eyes darted here, there, everywhere as his ears strained to hear anything. The heat and the stench pressed against him, but his heart, his treacherous heart, started to beat at a staccato rate, as adrenaline filled his veins, spread through his body. That natural high, a good rush, not as stellar as cocaine or heroin… but this particular rush would  do just fine.  

He searched for was any evidence of the two boys Maggie claimed to have. The children could possibly be part of the cover story. However, children were initiated into the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ at an extraordinarily young age. It was very possible that Maggie might be mentoring a pair of _Petit Rouges._ The last thing he needed was to be jumped by a pair of mini-gangsters in training, either _._ Mostly because Mycroft would never let him live it down if he had gotten captured and beaten by a pair of twelve year olds.

But Sherlock deduced that  the lack of children’s trainers by the door, the pristine white furniture, glass coffee tables and the complete absence of any kind of toys or games indicated the place was devoid of any kids.

Sherlock crept into the kitchen and froze on the threshold.

Maggie Jenner lay on the floor, in a pool of blood, her eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

Sherlock leaned forward, examined her fatal wound.

She had been shot in the exact same place where he had been shot last summer.

He still didn’t know who really had called 999 that night. But it wasn’t Mrs. Watson.

“Dammit Mary,” Sherlock closed his eyes. _I lied for you. I told John you called 999 to save my life. I killed Magnussen to save you because John loves you. Why are you trying to throw your life away now? You can’t take care of Marissa if you’re dead, you daft woman…_

Sherlock took the ball cap off and wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. It really was blasted hot out and it was ten times worse in the closed-up house. Hopefully the storm front that had been building would break in the next day or two. Rain was desperately needed now.

Sherlock slipped out the way he came. There was no point investigating further. Mary would have cleaned the place out of any secrets it may have hidden.

He debated on whether or not he should use this as a chance to buy more time for himself and Violet. On one side, it would be foolish to waste the opportunity. He did, after all, find a new _Rouge_ cell in Suburbia, proof that the London cell was rebuilding.

On the other side, the hit was so obviously made by AGRA.

Sherlock pictured MI-6 kicking down the door to the Watsons’ terrace house, hauling John and Mary away. John could be arrested for suspicion of aiding and abetting.

Would Mycroft help John or would he let him hang alongside his wife?

At the same time, Sherlock saw a black bag thrown over Violet’s head as she was shoved into a non-descript van and brought to an American military base located somewhere in Europe. Held indefinitely as a terrorist, never seeing the light of day again…

Sherlock reached into his pocket, pulled out a memory stick.

He had made several copies, of course. He wasn’t an idiot. However, he kept the original with him most of the time. The memory stick was his insurance policy. Shortly before his Great Hiatus had ended, he had made a stop in Sweden when he had received a tip that a hacker came across a very interesting bit of information… something that could crush the British Government completely. The literal British Government, not just Mycroft.

Flipping the memory stick over in his fingers, he realized he could save John if Mycroft took him. Might have to leave Mary behind to do so… but Mary would want him to save John even if it meant leaving her to die in a prison cell… or worse.

If Violet was sent back to America before Mycroft cleared her name, she would be beyond Sherlock’s reach. She would be lost.

Unacceptable.

Sherlock texted Mycroft the location of the new _Rouge_ cell address and how he had found a body of a possible _Rouge_ informant that had a connection to Moriarty. He also informed his brother he believed Moriarty had been stalking Molly because she was close to him and demanded extra surveillance be put on her.

Then he drove back to London, thinking how he needed to get ahead of Rucastle now.

Before another girl disappeared.

It was a mathematical certainty another young aspiring actress would disappear. If it hadn’t  happened already, that was .

The storm clouds were indeed building.

**

6 August 2015  
The Watsons’ residence  
Thursday afternoon  
1:05 PM

John rubbed his eyes with the pad of his thumb and forefinger. He wondered if he might have to invest in reading glasses. _Getting old really is the pits,_ he thought, leaning back into the sofa, staring dismally at the stacks of medical records on his coffee table.

_Something’s missing,_ Sherlock had said when John had arrived at 221B with the stack of medical records for Lady Elise. John never really got a chance to grill Sherlock about what could be missing from these files. When Sherlock had gotten ill, John didn’t have the heart to ask. When Mary had started acting strangely, it had slipped John’s mind. Until Sherlock reminded him, advised him, actually. The night they had worked on repairing the air conditioner (which consisted of John watching Sherlock and handing him a tool when ordered to do so), Sherlock had recommended he read the files again at least as a distraction until Sherlock could speak to Violet about why she was helping Mary look for Maisie and get her to explain why they had been lying about that particular search.

“But you said something was missing,” John had insisted. “From Lady Elise’s medical files, you said something was missing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock had grunted, fussing with something or other with the air conditioning contraption. “Give me a screwdriver, if not inconvenient.”

Before handing it over, John had asked, “But what am I looking for? What’s missing?”

“No idea.”

John contemplated stabbing Sherlock in the neck with the screwdriver, then realized that would definitely be Not Good. So he gave Sherlock the requested tool and had lapsed back into his broody silence, trying to digest the fact that his daughter might not be dead.

John now scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, still trying to digest the fact that his daughter might actually be… out there. Living, breathing, growing into a little person.

He remembered Mary’s comments in the cab ride.

_I can’t stop thinking about her, John. I keep thinking oh, she’d be seven months old now…_

Seven months old… she might be sitting up on her own by now… or not. Since she had been a preemie and all… she might be a bit behind developmentally… but still… _alive_.

The boiling anger had simmered down a bit. Cooled by other emotions. Like guilt…

_I should have never left her. I should have stayed by her… I’m supposed to protect her... I should have stayed…_

John closed his eyes, remembering…

_…  sitting on a black stool, next to the incubator. The special care nursery was hushed except for the beeping of the monitors and the whoosh of the ventilators. He checked her monitors more often than the actual doctor and nurses. He didn’t care that he got a gentle scolding from the nurse to let the staff do their jobs. It soothed him actually, keeping an eye on her heart rate, breathing rate, blood pressure and her blood oxygen levels. So he alternated between  checking the monitors and from looking at_ her _...._

_Sweet girl._ His _sweet girl._

_He got to hold her, briefly, very,_ very _briefly. No easy task with all the wires and whatnot, but he got to hold her for a little bit before they popped her back in the incubator. He had been so overwhelmed by the experience, he had wanted to cry but found he couldn’t. She was so tiny, she fit in his hand, she needed him… but her mother needed him too… but she lay in a different bed, in a different ward, unresponsive. For all intents  and practical purposes, Mary Watson was dead to the world…_

_… and he knew Mary would want him to be here, with Maisie. He knew Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade were keeping vigil over Mary. Kind of them to do that, Molly and Greg. They had barely known her… but neither did he, really…_

_He jumped slightly when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. Bleary-eyed, he looked up at the nurse who had soft, kind eyes and a gentle, understanding smile. Her name tag read “Jenny”. “How’re you holding up, Dad?” she asked him warmly._

_“Oh… I’m OK,” he had lied. He hadn’t slept in over seventy-two hours. He had lain awake the entire night before Sherlock’s exile. He had wanted to visit Sherlock in the prison he had been held in after the Magnussen shooting, but Mycroft said no. The prick then had the gall to tell John that he should be grateful that he was even allowed to say good-bye before they sent Sherlock off on his suicide mission…_

_Then that fucker Moriarty came back to life…_

_Then Mary went into labor…_

_Then he had been shunted out of the delivery room and had blindly followed a nurse to the waiting room where Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and that bastard Mycroft sat in plastic chairs. He had looked helplessly at Sherlock, waiting for the Great Detective to give him the answers. But Sherlock’s face had mirrored John’s, panicked and powerless. “I don’t know what to tell you John,” he had told him, his voice lacking its usual arrogance and confidence…_

_And now he was here, next to a glass case that enclosed a child,_ his child _, who weighed four pounds… such a scrawny thing… but John had fallen absolutely, unconditionally in love with this skinny baby, with her head too big for her body, her limbs frail and brittle as chicken bones. They had put a pink knitted cap on her head to keep her warm. It looked ridiculous on her. He loved it… he thought it was cute. He already planned on embarrassing her with pictures of her bulbous head and pink cap on her Sweet Sixteen birthday party…_

Please God… let her see sixteen… and twenty-six… and fifty-six… and ninety-six…

_He found himself praying to a God he was never fully sure actually listened but he prayed all the same… prayed for Mary to wake up, prayed for Sherlock to stay safe in London and for Maisie to get healthy enough to take her home…_

_He reached through the small openings in the incubator to gently stroke Maisie on her belly  with the tips of his fingers, almost a tickle. She kicked weakly. John hoped that meant she liked it when he did that. Softly, he began to sing the same song to her as his mother had sung to him and his sister Harry when they were small… “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine… you make me happy, when skies are grey…”_

_“John?”_

_He turned his head and saw Sherlock standing behind him, wearing scrubs, the same as John was. John told the doctors Sherlock was immediate family so he could have unfettered access to the NICU. They probably thought Sherlock was his boyfriend and Mary was a surrogate but at the moment, John didn’t give a damn what they thought. Let them talk…_

_Sherlock looked as haggard as John felt. He looked nearly as pale and sickly as he had when the doctors had finally declared he was “well” enough to be discharged from the hospital after Mary had shot him. He also hadn’t shaved since returning from his four-minute exile either. His black hair looked like a rat’s nest. If it wasn’t for the scrubs, he’d look homeless._

_“Hey,” John said to his best friend before turning back to his daughter._

_“Come, let’s get a cuppa and a sandwich, yes?”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“John, you won’t do Marissa any favors if you keel over from malnutrition and dehydration.”_

_“You really do hate the name “Maisie” that much, don’t you?”_

_Sherlock’s eyes had flicked back to the name plate on the incubator then to the child inside of it. “Of course I do. Marissa Anne Watson is a lovely, elegant name. Maisie is just dull. Something you would call a dog.”_

_John snorted. “Thanks loads mate, for comparing my daughter to a dog.”_

_Sherlock fidgeted as he realized he had said something Not Good but his limited social skills hampered his understanding as to what exactly he had said that was Bad and what the Right Thing he was supposed to say was. John knew this and said, “It’s OK. I know you weren’t trying to be rude or unkind.”_

_“John,” Sherlock’s voice was strained. “You’re about to collapse from exhaustion. You need to eat something before your blood sugar plummets. Mycroft sent some of his minions to your place for a change of clothes. There’s a doctor’s lounge with a shower where you can freshen up and maybe kip out for a bit on one of their sofas. Marissa is perfectly fine, you confirmed that yourself. You’ve been checking her monitors religiously. The staff here is competent and I can clearly observe that while she is quite small, she is healthy enough for an infant born seven weeks premature.” When John didn’t answer, Sherlock whispered, “John, please. You are frightening me. You need to take care of yourself.”_

_He could count on one hand how many times Sherlock had actually used the word Please._

_And he never imagined he had the power to scare Sherlock._

_He caved. He whispered to Maisie, “Daddy’ll be back soon, I promise”, stroked her little distended belly one more time and followed Sherlock out of the NICU…_

… And that’s when it had to have happened. If Maisie was alive, the switch happened when Sherlock convinced him to leave to tend to basic human requirements: food and rest. John rubbed his sore neck, mentally kicking himself. He should have _known_ something rotten was afoot. He _had_ been checking the monitors and the charts. And Sherlock said _he_ had observed that Maisie was healthy enough for a baby born nearly two months early.

Maisie had been perfectly _fine_ when he left.

He shook his head. Emotion and physical exhaustion had clouded both his and Sherlock’s judgment. When they returned to the NICU and had been told Maisie died, John stopped being a doctor. He became a grieving father. Sherlock, for once, had no interest in the mystery of Maisie’s death, why a healthy preemie would suddenly slip away like that. He had been consumed with supporting John.

John vividly remembered Sherlock grabbing him around the waist as his legs gave way. How Sherlock’s voice had shook like mad as he said over and over in his ear, _John, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, it’s alright, it’s alright… I’m here, I’m here._

John had tried to keep it together, tried to stand up but his legs just wouldn’t cooperate. Then he had started to sob softly and uncontrollably. He hadn’t been thinking about how suspicious his daughter’s death was… he had been thinking how unfair it was that she died in hospital. That she never got to see anything pretty or lovely, that she never got to grow up and have fun. Make friends and fall in love. That her world consisted of a stupid plastic isolette and wires and tubes… and how bloody fucking unfair it was that she never got to meet her mother… and Mary could die next… and despite his assurances that he was _here_ , John could still lose Sherlock too. Mycroft could still send him away.

He remembered thinking about his gun as Sherlock had half-dragged him, half-carried him to a chair after the NICU doctor said he was so, so sorry about his loss. The old, suicidal thoughts that had plagued him before his chance run-in with Mike Stamford all those years ago came roaring back with a vengeance. Insidiously they had enticed him, beckoned him, whispered seductively to him _to just end it all_ … and then Sherlock had said sternly in his ear, “No, John. Unacceptable. I will not allow it. You’re staying with me tonight. And tomorrow. And forever if that’s what it takes to make you live. Do you understand?”

Of course Sherlock would have deduced his dark thoughts.

But no wonder Sherlock had also been terrified.

Sometimes it overwhelmed John, knowing how much he meant to Sherlock.

_The two people who love you the most…_

_Of course you’re my best friend…_

So, yes, John’s desolation had scared Sherlock enough not to investigate Maisie’s death. Then after helping John deal with his pain, he had to go through it all again when Mary woke up. When she realized her baby was gone. Mary became hysterical, inconsolable. She had curled up in a ball and cried that it should have been _her_ that died, that she _wanted_ to die, that she _should_ have died on the table, after everything she had done. Sherlock had stepped in when John became too emotionally and physically wrecked to help Mary with her sorrow and guilt.

The Great Detective’s caring was not to his advantage nor to the Watsons’, but to the abductor’s.

What a perfect plan, how meticulously designed. How manically manipulative…

“Oh my God,” John said into the empty lounge. “It was Mycroft.”

Only Mycroft was cunning and cold enough to trick Sherlock like that.

John never cared for Mycroft, but he was beginning to understand why Sherlock rabidly hated his elder brother. 

_I am going to kill that fucking bastard yet,_ John felt the fury building within him again, _If Mary doesn’t beat me to it… and whose baby did I bury, if my baby is still alive?_

John suddenly felt like he could throw up. _That sick cocksucker_ …

His mobile vibrated.

John puffed out a breath and reached for his mobile, saw a text from Violet. She was another one who would happily hold Mycroft’s head in a bucket of water until he stopped moving.

He frowned. Her health was starting to concern him. First her shaking hands. Now that bout of vomiting last night at Greg and Molly’s, and she had looked dreadfully pale. Granted, finding an eviscerated cat in a baby’s crib was highly unpleasant. John had also felt queasy, but Violet had once described without batting an eyelash how finding decapitated bodies of drug lords was just a day on the job for her at the FBI. Something was definitely wrong with her now. He needed to nag her again to schedule a proper doctor’s appointment.

He read her text:

Lady E’s tox reports?   
What do they say? – VS

John blinked.

Read her brief text again.

“That’s what’s missing,” he said again to an empty room. “Oh my God, how-” he reached for the first file on top of the stack “-Could I have been so stupid?”

Of course. _Of course_.

The toxicology report from the autopsy was missing.

Nobody commented on it… because Lady Elise didn’t die from an overdose.

She had slashed her wrists. And had been diagnosed clinically depressed and agoraphobic.

_Thank you Violet,_ John reached for his shoes, shoveled his feet into them and then dialed for a cab. Gave his address and told the dispatch he needed to go to New Scotland Yard.

He wondered if Lestrade would let him borrow Alex MacDonald to do some digging.

_**_

7 August 2015  
New Scotland Yard  
Friday morning  
11:05 AM 

Her telephone, the old-fashioned one on her desk, rang loudly. She snatched it up, tucked the receiver between her ear and shoulder. “MacDonald.”

“Alexis, it’s Geoff, can you meet down in Interview Room One right away?”

“Yep,” and she rang off. She paused to lock her computer screen and then she put her elbow on her desk and rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Shit.”

She and Sergeant Geoff Hockett had gone to the police academy at the same time. They had also studied for their Sergeant exams together and often had beers together after a long day. Over the years, they had become good friends. He was one of the few people who got away with calling her “Alexis.” He now worked in Missing Persons.

Alex knew exactly what she was going to hear and it wasn’t going to be good.

She was half-tempted to text Sherlock Holmes right now but she abstained. Get the facts first, especially when dealing with Holmes.

She had spent most of yesterday afternoon digging through old files with John Watson. She liked Dr. Watson. Good bloke. Smart man. Had an interesting theory about an ice-cold case and the Burned Girls. Interesting theory that made sense…

Shame they couldn’t find the tox report that was missing from the autopsy report. Dr. Watson had hoped a copy would have been filed with the original police report. It had also been missing from the copy of the report the Met gave Sherlock weeks ago.

But she put John Watson out of her head as she knocked on the doorframe of Interview Room One. Hockett let her in and shut the door. As she sat down in front of the distraught older woman, Hockett introduced her. “Mrs. Payne-Ellis? This is Sergeant Alexis MacDonald. I know this is a very difficult time, but could you please tell her what you told me? She’s working a case with similar characteristics as your daughter’s disappearance.”

The older woman looked like she could be a toffee-nosed bitch, with her expensive handbag and shoes. Her hair was perfect and her dress cost more than Alex’s car. But the woman’s grief was very real. “My daughter, Evelyn. Evie, everyone calls her Evie, never came home Thursday night. And she’s still missing. She’s not that kind of girl to just vanish off the face of the earth. Especially now, she got a job you see. Two jobs really, a proper job and an acting job.”

“An acting job? Where?” Alex felt dread consume her.

“I don’t remember,” Mrs. Payne-Ellis wiped her eyes with her fingertips then dug into her handbag for tissues. “One of the West End theatres? She’s an understudy, Ophelia in _Hamlet_. Please, she’s a good girl,” the mother insisted. “Got good grades in secondary school and university, this acting thing was only meant to be a lark, her only real rebellion.”

“What’s the proper job?” Alex asked.

“I don’t remember the name but she said she’s working in a nice shop now, making good money,” Mrs. Payne-Ellis confessed. “She said it was a boutique in Soho?”

Alex jotted down a note. “OK.”

Hockett asked, “When did you realize your daughter was missing, Mrs. Payne-Ellis?” 

“She’s been missing since Thursday night. Her roommate, Josie, called me, all in a tizz because Evie never came back to their flat and thought she came back to our place. None of her friends have seen her since Thursday afternoon when they all went out for coffee.”

“Right, thank you, Mrs. Payne-Ellis,” Alex stood up and looked at Hockett. “Two seconds?”

Hockett made his excuses and met Alex out in the hall. “So, what do you think?”

“Fuck,” she said succinctly.   

“She’s twenty-three. Maybe she’s sleeping off a bender at a new boyfriend’s house?”

Alex shook her head. “She’s a young pretty actress who got a job at a West End theatre.”

“Was trying to be optimistic, Alexis.”

“Last girl was only nineteen, Geoff.”    

Hockett closed his eyes. “Hate my job sometimes, I really do.”

“Me too.”

“Let’s find this sick pervert who gets his jollies off by burning up young ladies, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex turned and fished her mobile out of her trousers pocket and dialed instead of texting. “Mr. Holmes? It’s Alex. I know you’d rather text, but another girl’s gone.”

His sonorous voice filled her ear as if he stood next to her, “Tell me everything.”

Lying on the sofa, Sherlock put his mobile on speaker and listened to Alex intently as she gave him a brief but detailed summary. He actually thanked her for the update. After Alex rang off, Sherlock set his smartphone on his chest then folded his fingers together. Gladstone padded up to him and set his snout on Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock scratched Gladstone’s pointy ears, pondering. _I have got to get inside that house_.

He checked his watch, rolling his eyes. But first, observing young Edward at the pool…

… then dinner tonight with Jepthro and Tristan Rucastle. _Double-date_.

He’d rather deal with a dead body.

_One thing is for certain_ , Sherlock thought. _Evie was not working in a nice shop in Soho…_

What _was_ the connection between Evie and those other girls? Yes they were all actresses and they might have run into each other from time to time, but according to their friends, family and social media, Alana Grant, Martine Hallard and Toni Pandy had no other connections. No mutual friends. They had all gone to difficult universities. Toni had still been in school actually.

“Of all the pretty, young actresses in London, why those four?” he asked Gladstone.

Gladstone’s response was to sneeze, spraying Sherlock with slobber and mucus.

“Bad dog,” he sighed.


	16. Femme Fatale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is the point of looking beautiful if all it does is cause pain? Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize it when it’s presented to me, beauty. Because when I see things people consider beautiful, I observe the stupidity that created it and the pain it causes..."
> 
> John meets darling little Edward.   
> Sherlock and Violet go out to dinner with Rucastle.   
> And Mary is MIA... so what could go wrong? :^)

Chapter Sixteen: _Femme Fatale_

7 August 2015  
The Serpentine Lido  
Hyde Park  
Friday afternoon  
1:05 PM 

Despite her years in England, some slang words still threw Violet.

When she had asked Sherlock last night what swimming pool she and Edward should visit, he had murmured that Serpentine was the closest and most child-friendly lido to the Belgravia neighborhood.

Having not gone swimming in years as well as being childless, Violet had tried to discreetly Google to find out what “lido” meant.

Of course there was no such thing as “discreet” in 221B.

“You could have just asked,” Sherlock had called to her from the bathroom where he had been taking a good long soak in the tub. “And you can cease and desist with the rude hand gestures.”

Having now arrived at the Serpentine, with a sulky Edward in tow, Violet couldn’t help but smile. It was actually… kind of cool. Beautiful, really. She had been expecting a water park like the ones back in America, with the man-made swimming pools and water slides. Turned  out, it was actually a very lovely lake, called the Serpentine River for some odd reason. Part of the lake was partitioned off for swimming but more importantly, there were “paddle pools” for children so Violet wouldn’t have to worry about the boy getting sucked under the lake water. There was also a proper playground as well, a grassy area for the adults to sunbathe (although the grass was thin and brown) and a café near the Princess Diana memorial that Violet had never visited.  

She had never really ventured out to this part of London before. Before taking the undercover job at Rucastle’s, she had never stepped foot in the Belgravia area. She never really ventured farther  than Buckingham Palace. While posing as “Janice Carr”, she and her old FBI partner had set up residence in a cheap flat near the University College of London with a bolt-hole in SoHo. After Agent Steven Morgan had been murdered by Jim Moriarty, Violet reinvented herself as “Violet Smith.” She had found a little flat that allowed dogs in the City itself, near the financial district and her job. She was more interested in staying alive than in visiting tourist destinations.

But she found herself regretting not visiting the Serpentine before. To her, it seemed very pretty. Maybe the natives had different opinions, but she definitely liked it. 

She saw John, sitting on a rug in the grass, waiting for her. He wore sunglasses, a white t-shirt, blue swimming trunks and a pair of the ugliest man-sandals she had ever seen. She was surprised Mary hadn’t “accidentally” tossed them out yet.

Which led her to the next logical thought, _Where in the hell has Mary been… again?_

Her disappearing act was getting pretty old pretty quickly. 

She waved to John and headed towards him.

“Who’s that?” the boy demanded.

“That’s a good friend of my boyfriend,” Violet Smith said lightly, putting her hand on her giant floppy straw hat. The hat served a dual purpose. It kept the sun out of her eyes and it hid her face and hair from the prying world. Coupled with a pair of giant sunglasses, only her nose and lips were visible. “He’s very nice. Come along.”

Violet had thought the bribe of swimming would have improved the boy’s mood, but he was just as sullen today as he had been yesterday. It was also boiling hot again. It was a good thing John had come early to stake a claim. Seemed like everyone in London had the same idea today as children laughed and splashed in the paddling pools and the adults wilted on the grass.

“Well, hello,” John said, friendly enough as Violet and Edward approached. “My name is John. And what are you called?”

Edward stared at John, clearly feeling hostile.

“Right,” John mumbled. “I suppose you’d rather go have fun than sit with the adults then.”

Edward nearly ran away, but Violet grabbed him. “Just a moment, let me put the sun-block on. You don’t want to get burned.” Edward squirmed under Violet’s touch as she smeared the thick white lotion all over his face, back, chest and belly. “OK, go on then,” she said warmly, tickling his belly playfully.

He slapped her hand away and took off towards the paddle pool.

“Cute kid,” John deadpanned.

“Hmmpf,” Violet snorted, studying the bite mark on her hand. _Maybe I feel so shitty all the time because Edward gave me rabies_ , she thought. Although today she had felt much better. She had eschewed breakfast and tea at the Rucastles, telling the truth for once that she had already eaten. Violet had a theory that since she had become a light eater during her exile in England, the rich food the Rucastles served (heavy on carbohydrates and thick creamy sauces) was  upsetting her stomach. So she had plain whole wheat toast and a cup of coffee with skim milk at 221B before going over to the Rucastles’. For lunch, she forced herself not to take cream in her tea and ate enormous amounts of fresh fruit and unbuttered bread, avoiding the kidney pie. When Mrs. Toller had asked her why she wasn’t eating very much, Violet explained she didn’t want a big meal before spending the day outdoors and then going out to dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle tonight.

Mrs. Toller had sniffed but only said, “Well, don’t get sunburned. I know the frock Mr. Rucastle is picking out for you is sleeveless.”

Violet had remembered the picture of the feathers-and-condoms dress and cringed.

Still, Violet had felt better immediately. Apparently plain food was the ticket.

John noticed too. There was a bit of color in her cheeks now and she didn’t seem so tired today. Maybe the vomiting was a twenty-hour bug. Plus she had been exposed to Sherlock when he had been ill. Maybe she didn’t get full-blown bronchitis but her immune system could have been compromised while she sacrificed sleep to take care of him plus do all this work for the cases.

But the hand tremors… 

“When are you going to see the doctor?” John asked as they watched Edward hover around the edge of the paddle pool, as if he was unsure whether or not to get in.

“Monday,” she told him. “I’m not disregarding what happened with my hands,” she looked at them again, expecting them to start shaking. They stayed quite steady however. “Where’s Sherlock? He said he’d be here.”

John rolled his eyes. “Undercover.”

“How? With his alabaster skin, he’d not only stick out like a sore thumb, he’d probably glow in the dark.”

John snorted, “Cruel woman.”

“It’s true! And you know it.” Then she sighed. “John, did you see how Eddie reacted when I tickled him?”

“Oh yeah,” John said. “I mean, if you were pinning him down and tickling him until he wet himself, sure, then I could see why he’d be peeved.”

“Most children like to be touched. Hugs and kisses. Ruffling the hair. Most parents begin their nonverbal communication with their babies by tickling their bellies.”

John trained his eyes on Edwards, remembering running his finger over Maisie’s tiny tummy, her bird-like legs kicking out, as if she were  still safe in Mary’s womb.

“Edward hates any sort of physical contact, the exception being his father and mother.” Her lips thinned, “Or when he needs to manipulate an adult into letting him have his way.”

“Any signs of abuse, though?” John asked, watching the boy plop into a squat by the pool, watching the other kids enjoying themselves in the water.

Violet shook her head. “No bruises. But the missing dog is worrisome.”

“Any luck finding him? The puppy?” John refrained from saying _The puppy’s body…_

Violet shook her head. “Any luck finding the missing toxicology report?”

“None,” John grumbled. “But I’m starting again from scratch with her medical records. I’m going to look for anything that might be a red flag for being drugged or poisoned or-” Suddenly John chuckled to himself. Softly, he told Violet, “Look to your right, then up.”

Acting like she was working out a crick in her neck, Violet rotated her head left, then right.

Then saw Sherlock. He sat in the lifeguard’s chair, wearing a floppy fisherman’s hat and sunglasses. Lifeguard swim-trunks, a whistle around his neck and a megaphone in his hand. He also wore a white tank top with the lifeguard’s logo on the front. Probably to hide his various scars; people would stare at knife wounds and bullet holes after all.

There were also streaks of sun-block on his nose and across his cheekbones right above the fair bit of scruff he had going on. He hadn’t shaved for two days now.

Violet rolled her eyes “Oh my God.”

“Hiding in plain sight.”

“How is he surviving without his mobile?”

“How is he not bursting into flames is what I want to know,” John sniggered.

“He does look a bit like a vampire, doesn’t he?”

“Am surprised he isn’t sparkling actually.”

“I knew you watched the _Twilight_ films.”

“Mary made me.”

“Oh, of course she did,” Violet drawled. “All I know is if he gets sunburned, I’m moving in with you and Mary. I’ve already dealt with him when he was ill. I cannot cope with anything else.”

“I’m sure a spot in heaven is guaranteed for you because of that,” John laughed.

The lifeguard meanwhile discreetly reached into the pocket of his swim-trunks and tapped out a message on his mobile and hit Send.

Both Violet and John’s smartphones buzzed.

They looked at each other, then their mobiles:  
  
I CAN READ LIPS - SH

Violet burst into laughter and John succumbed to giggles.

Their mobiles buzzed again.

I hate you both – SH

Both John and Violet mouthed, _No you don’t_.

They could feel his baleful glare on them.    

John cleared his throat. “Violet, I know what you and Mary have been investigating.”

Violet flicked her eyes up at the lifeguard then back at Edward, who still sat on the edge of the pool, watching the other kids play. “She just didn’t want to get your hopes up, John. She wanted to make sure she was right before she told you.”

“I know. I see that now. Still makes me mad as hell she didn’t trust me enough to tell me. And you helped her.”

Violet reached down for the hem of her swimsuit cover up and pulled it up over her head, knocking her hat off in the process. She wore a simple black one-piece swim suit that she had purchased just yesterday. It was wonderful, being in charge of her money again.

She quickly put her hat back on and reached for the sun-block. The shouts and screams of the children was perfect white noise to cover up a private conversation. “John, when she asked me to help her, she was scaring the hell out of me. I thought if I didn’t help her, she’d unravel, do something truly desperate and quite possibly violent.” She smeared sun-block on her arms.

Sherlock hadn’t told either Violet or John about finding Maggie Jenner’s body yesterday.

Keeping her eyes on Edward while rubbing sun-block on her legs, she added, “I also knew it was only a matter of time before  Sherlock would deduce what we were doing and would tell you.”

“Violet, please don’t lie to me. Did someone take my daughter?”

Violet stopped applying sun-block. She leaned back on her elbows, watching Edward. Then she nodded.

John felt like he had been kicked in the gut. By an elephant.

“Is she still alive?”

“We’re working on that bit now,” Violet said just as Edward suddenly dashed into the paddle pool. Ran and snatched some sort of pool toy out of a little girl’s hands. It was a brightly colored plastic hoop one would toss so the other would swim out to fetch it. The little girl wailed and Edward pushed her down into the water.

“Oh my God,” Violet cried out. She and John bolted from their spots.

Sherlock and a real life guard blew their respective whistles.

But Sherlock was the life guard who observed the elation in Edward’s face when he pushed the little girl down again after she struggled to get back up.

John helped the little girl stand up as she spit out water and started to howl. Violet angrily yanked the toy out of Edward’s hands and cupped his chin, making him look at her. “Edward, that was very wrong. You could have really hurt that little girl. You don’t do that. You don’t take things that don’t belong to you and you don’t push people into the water.”

“What the blazing hell is going on?” an angry male voice bellowed.

“ _Daddy_ ,” the little girl wept. 

John and Violet looked at each other. Like brother and sister, they exchanged the same look and the same thought: _Fuck my life_.

Violet, keeping a tight hold on Edward’s shoulder, stood up to apologize to the little girl’s father. “Sir, I am so sorry…” her mouth dropped open.

She was staring right at Victor Trevor.

Handsome as ever, he wore stylish sunglasses and extremely flattering swim-trunks. His skin was lightly bronzed now, making his hair look even blonder. He was also shirtless. He could have easily modeled in a men’s health magazine, his abs and pectoral muscles were chiseled and perfect.

_Sherlock doesn’t date ugly,_ Violet thought with a touch of irritation.

John on the other hand, suddenly felt acutely aware of the slight potbelly he had now, thanks to Mary. Assassin, liar, con artist… and a damn good cook.

Victor took his sunglasses off and stared at Violet, as if trying to remember where he had seen her before. 

John, meanwhile, looked back and forth between Victor and Violet, confused.  As usual.

“ _Daddy_ ,” the girl suddenly wailed again and ran towards Victor, splashing water everywhere.

Victor scooped his daughter up in his arms. “Leigh, it’s OK, Daddy’s got you,” he murmured into her blond curls. Then he stared quizzically at Violet again. He couldn’t really see her face with the hat and the sunglasses, but he had recognized her voice. “Miss Smith?”

“Dr. Watson, this is one of Sherlock’s old friends from university,” Violet introduced Victor to John tonelessly.

“Um OK,” John’s face was crinkled in complete bafflement while thinking _Sherlock only had one friend in university…_ then it hit him. _Oh shit, this is Victor Trevor._ “Yeah, hello, good to meet you. Sherlock has told me…” he struggled for an appropriate lie. “Absolutely nothing about any of his old friends ,” he held his hand out to shake. “Um, shall we get out of the kiddie pool? Have a proper chat?”

“Yes, right,” Victor was also nonplussed. They all got out of the paddle pool, conscious of the parents and children’s eyes on them.

John and Violet were very conscious of a particular pair of blue-green-gold eyes on them.

“You, young man, are in Time Out,” Violet scolded Edward. “Sit in the middle of this rug and don’t you move a muscle. Your father will hear about this.”

The boy’s lower lip began  to quiver but in a fierce little voice he said, “I hate you. You’re a girl and I hate you. She was a girl too and I hate her and her stupid hoop.”

“That’s very rude to say. And I’m still telling your father,” Violet said coolly then to Victor she asked, “Two seconds please?”

“Sure,” Victor planted a kiss on Leigh’s temple and put her down. “Go find Mummy.” As Leigh scampered off, Victor added as they walked a few paces away from the pouting boy on the rug, “Sweet boy you’ve got there.”

“That’s Jepthro Rucastle’s son,” John said in a low voice . “We took the case for Alice.”

“Oh… _oh_ ,” understanding dawned in Victor’s eyes. Then he looked at Edward again in horror. _That little terror is Alice’s half-brother? God help her…_ “I see.”

“Good,” Violet whispered. “That’s why I introduced you so vaguely,  which I do apologize for that bit of rudeness. But I don’t know how much Edward would repeat back to his father. If Jepthro makes a connection to you and Alice and Sherlock, we’re cooked. I am truly sorry about what happened to your daughter and I’m absolutely appalled by Edward’s behavior. But you need to leave. Now.”

The Earl of Winchester may have been in Thailand, but who knew who he had spying on them?

And of course, there was always Moriarty to worry about. Always.

“No, I understand, completely. But,” Victor looked around. “Is Sherlock here?”

“No,” John lied smoothly as Violet handed Victor his daughter’s toy back to him.

“Right, well,” he fiddled with the brightly colored ring. “We’re here in town for a few days. I accepted a job here in London yesterday and we’re here house-hunting, again, over the weekend. Let…” he trailed off for a second, noticing the diamond ring on Violet’s left hand. “Um… let him know I’m in town?”

“Will do,” John nodded. “You better get going.”

“Right. Nice meeting you, Dr. Watson. Miss Smith,” he eyed the surly boy glaring at them from his spot on the rug. “Good luck with that.” 

Victor left them then. He walked right past where the life guards sat. He saw them but he didn’t observe them.

Sherlock watched Victor rejoin his family up on the grassy knoll where Patricia had been sunbathing while reading a very tattered copy of _50 Shades of Gray_. Her swimsuit cover-up had hitched up and Sherlock could see what had been a tattoo of a dolphin now looked like a beached whale. She now consoled her unhappy daughter. Sherlock watched Victor have a word with Patricia and together they packed up their swimming things and left the lido, walking past the life guards again. Patricia looked quite relieved to be leaving; she did not seem the type to enjoy being outdoors in a swimsuit.

Victor stared through him like he was scenery. A tree. A rock. Nothing important.

Sherlock closed his eyes. It was 2007 all over again.

Felt the burning hurt, the hot shame spreading through his body again…

_You chose not to see me… you didn’t even notice, didn’t even see it was me._

**

7 August 2015  
Jepthro Rucastle’s Residence  
Friday evening   
6:32 PM

The dress was not what Violet expected.

While it was sleeveless, it was not strapless. There were  the tiniest of straps holding the frock up.

Of course the dress was electric blue. But it had a plunging neckline that nearly went to her navel. There was enough cloth to cover her breasts but there was no back to the dress. And there were peek-a-boo cut-outs on her hips. Granted, there was a nude-colored mesh sewn over the cut-outs, but it looked like her bare flesh was visible. 

Violet blushed. There had been no way to wear a bra with this gown. Mrs. Toller had to help her apply double-sided tape to the gown and her breasts so she wouldn’t inadvertently give the world a show. Violet had squirmed under the old bat’s touch, hating to have to bare her body to this horrible woman. But it couldn’t be helped, there was no way she would be able to get into the gown by herself.

The floor-length dress itself was a mermaid-style gown, skin-tight through the waist and thighs but billowing out around her knees. Violet had become quite slender during her time in England due to a combination of kickboxing, yoga and constant anxiety of discovery, which all whittled away her appetite. And yet, Mrs. Toller could barely do up the hidden zip on the right side of the frock. The dress felt like it was one size too small for her. Once Mrs. Toller got the zip up though, Violet immediately felt short of breath. She was sure her ribs were going to snap from the pressure of the gown compressing her abdomen.  She had never felt more uncomfortable in her life, and she’d once had pepper spray misted into her face during her training at Quantico  just so she and the other cadets would know  what that felt like.

And she still had to do her hair, her make-up and put on shoes.

She glanced at the pointy-toed five-inch high heels and scowled at them.

“Sit,” Mrs. Toller barked at her, holding a hair brush.

“I’ll do my own hair and make-up, thanks,” Violet said quickly.

She didn’t have to go through the daily torture of tea time today as Rucastle insisted she use that time as additional time to bathe and get ready for tonight. But she still had to endure Mrs. Toller who continued to hover.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Toller snapped. “I’ve seen what you do to your hair on a daily basis plus I do Mrs. Rucastle’s face and hair when she goes out.”

“Shouldn’t you be helping her then?” Violet asked sweetly. “I’d hate to steal you away from her.”

“She isn’t coming,” Mrs. Toller said briskly. “She is unwell.”

_Bullshit,_ Violet thought as she conceded defeat and sat in front of a vanity mirror in one of the many guest rooms.

She looked at the pink walls and the pink and white duvet festooned with ribbons and ruffles. With a jolt, she realized that she was in Alice’s old bedroom. As Mrs. Toller rummaged through her bag, looking for something, she turned her head and yes, there was the window Alice had been talking about. She could see quite clearly over the privacy wall and into the garden next door. Oh yes, a young girl could easily have an innocent friendship with the neighbor boy. It’d be no problem to tie a jump rope to a picnic basket and toss it over the fence then pull it back up.

She turned just in time to see Mrs. Toller pull out a pair of hairdresser’s scissors.

“What the bloody hell!” Violet tried to get up as quickly as she could.

“Thought I’d trim the split ends,” Mrs. Toller said calmly.

“I just had a trim, thank you,” Violet said politely.

“Mr. Rucastle really does not care for long hair, you know,” Mrs. Toller eyed her chestnut locks that Violet had been able to blow-dry and straighten in the privacy of the bathroom after her shower.  “You really should just chop it all off.”

Instinctively, Violet put a hand to her head. There had been times she fantasized about cutting her hair but… _that’s my decision_. “However, Mr. Holmes loves my hair,” Violet countered. “He’d be upset. Would probably insist I quit this job if he finds out Mr. Rucastle is forcing me to cut my hair,” Violet smiled grimly, counting on Mrs. Toller’s fear that she would be stuck with Edward again until a new tutor was found.

For his antics at the lido today, Edward had been banished to the kitchen. He had to sit at the kitchen table with only Toller for company until tea time. Then, once she finished dolling Violet up, Mrs. Toller would be in charge of the boy until bedtime.

“I am very displeased, Edward,” Rucastle had frowned at the boy before disappearing into one of the many rooms in this pretty prison. Edward had visibly crumpled and had chased after his father but Toller had picked the boy up, threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried him into the kitchen as Edward had a full-fledged meltdown.

Since she knew Toller was a suspected accomplice to the Burned Girls case, Violet worried about Toller abusing the boy if left alone with him. However, that didn’t fit Toller’s profile. He had no history of child abuse and also Edward was the apple of Rucastle’s eye. If Toller or anyone else had laid a finger on the child, Violet strongly suspected that individual would no longer be breathing… _what a paradox; he may have killed his first wife, might be drugging his current wife, allegedly hates his daughter, but he is a devoted father to his son…_

_… or he’s an ordinary asshole who hates women._

So instead of checking on Edward, Violet had decided to take advantage of her freedom from Edward. She had been left alone to clean up after spending the afternoon at the lido. So she had tried to do a little snooping. Most of the rooms she had tried to enter, however, were locked. The only rooms that were open to her were the kitchen, the parlor, the main foyer, Edward’s nursery and the bathroom closest to his nursery.

Violet suspected Rucastle and Mrs. Toller were the only ones with keys.

Conceding defeat, Violet had gone to shower and prepare for tonight’s “treat”.

As she continued to glare at Mrs. Toller (who had not yet put the scissors down) Violet wondered about the darkroom in the basement. _A darkroom would have a drain to pour the used chemicals down… if forensics went down there, would they find trace evidence of blood?_  

She was curious but not stupid. No way in hell she was going downstairs alone.

And she would give Mrs. Toller a good jab in the nose if she came near her with those scissors. 

Mrs. Toller meanwhile was thinking about Violet’s threat. “Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she dropped the scissors back into her bag. Violet sat down at the vanity again. Mrs. Toller attacked Violet’s hair with her brush and combs. Violet’s eyes watered as Mrs. Toller scraped her hair back into some complicated hairdo, with half of her hair up and out of her eyes and half of it down, trailing down her back. Violet’s eyes watered more as she tried not to breathe in Mrs. Toller’s disgusting perfume while the stringy old bitch stabbed her head with kirby grips.

“I do insist on applying my own make-up,” Violet said when Mrs. Toller finished with her hair twenty minutes later. “And I need to put my contact lenses in,” she lied.

Plus she was afraid Mrs. Toller would swipe mascara in her eyeball instead of on her eyelashes on purpose. Or stab her in the eye with the sharpened point of her eyeliner.

Mrs. Toller sniffed, obviously offended, “Fine. But you should take your wrist-watch off. It doesn’t match your ensemble.”

_Fuck you bitch_ , Violet bridled, clasping her hand over her watch, the only thing she had left from her brother Michael. “That will be all, Mrs. Toller,” Violet said in her most imperial voice.

Mrs. Toller’s face flushed with anger but she left Violet in peace.

Violet quickly and expertly put her camouflage on her face. She had been nervous, sitting in here with her bare face, freckles and scar visible, but Mrs. Toller had seemed too consumed with stuffing her into this miserable corset of a dress to remark on her face.

She made her eye make-up a bit smokier than usual and applied more lip-liner than normal to make her mouth seem fuller. She then dabbed foundation over the scar on her neck, the one she had received courtesy of Jim Moriarty. She was surprised Mrs. Toller hadn’t commented on that either. But she probably just didn’t _observe_ any of Violet’s scars.

Then Violet awkwardly stood up and studied the effect in the mirror. She touched her collarbone and felt her cheeks heat up again. She was no prude but had also never been comfortable showing a lot of skin. It was one thing to run through her flat wearing only a towel in front of John and Sherlock. But she considered John her brother and he was also married. As for Sherlock, she knew he would never make an unwanted advance. She could have dropped the towel and stood there buck naked and he would have merely lifted his eyebrows, looked her up and down from tits to toes and declared: “Boring.”

No, it definitely wasn’t her body Sherlock was interested in.

Strangely enough, he wasn’t averse to late-night cuddling with her when his old nightmares reared their ugly heads, despite his claims that his body was merely transportation for his massive and busy brain. But the monsters that lived in the dungeons sometimes slipped from their cells at night and roamed the halls of his mind palace, haunting him, tormenting him…

_Did you miss me?_

Violet leaned forward, steadied herself, her palms splayed out on top of the vanity.

Sherlock was not the only one Jim Moriarty had tortured, played games with…

_I deduced he assaulted you sexually after I made a comment about being in bed with Moriarty, meaning you worked for him but you immediately said ‘I wasn’t literally in bed with Moriarty’ and shuddered after saying that…_

_Yeah well, and I found out the Earl hurt you. So now we both know we have to be a little careful with each other, don’t we…?_

Violet straightened up, flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted the décolletage of her gown. _Get a grip Hunter. It’s not about you. If Rucastle is the bastard killing the Burned Girls and if he did drive Lady Elise to suicide… let’s focus and nail his ass to the wall…_

_… and if we can implicate the fucking Earl of Winchester in on this as well… bonus._

_Memo to self… Sherlock might need some TLC tonight, after seeing Victor and all. Be nice. No matter how big of an asshole he may act like… OK, WILL act like._

Violet scooped up the electric blue clutch Rucastle gave her and slid her feet into the high heeled shoes. They pinched her toes just as badly as she had been afraid they would.

Still she managed to walk on them just fine as she left the pink and white room that made her think of cotton candy. She strode down the hallway just as confidently as any fashion model but she paused at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock and Rucastle were waiting in the foyer. Rucastle actually wore a slightly conservative suit, for him at any rate. A white three-piece-suit obviously tailored for his massive girth. He wore a pretentious watch-chain, complete with a silver pocket watch. There was a lavender handkerchief stuck in his breast pocket. His dress shirt was lavender and his tie was lavender and baby-blue strips. His shiny shoes were bright baby blue. He also wore a lavender fedora that had one long streaming peacock feather stuck in the baby blue hatband.

Violet thought he looked like he belonged with Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Sherlock, mercifully, looked like Sherlock. He was clean-shaven now but he hadn’t bothered to tame his black curls. He wore one of his usual designer suits and shoes, black, of course. He also wore a slim-cut white dress shirt that the Internet loved nearly as much as the Purple Shirt of Sex. But that had been before The Shooting, when he still had quite a bit of muscle he had built up during his Great Hiatus. Then he had lost a considerable amount of weight after The Shooting. In short, he wasn’t nearly as muscular as he had been over year ago. He had finally started putting a little bit of meat back on his bones this summer so the White Shirt of Sex still looked good on him. It just wasn’t as tight on him as it had been in the past. At least, the buttons didn’t look like they were going to burst off at any given second.

Last June, Violet had inadvertently stumbled across a blog that actually rated Sherlock’s shirts on the grounds of how sexy they made him look. And she still hadn’t gotten over the fact that a fan-girl had actually tried to snatch Sherlock’s freshly laundered and pressed shirts out of her hands when she realized one of the shirts was the Holy of Holies, the beloved Purple Shirt. Violet had felt like Indiana Jones trying to defend the Ark of the Covenant from the Nazis that day as she tried to protect Sherlock’s clothes. 

_Yeah I wonder if they all would still think he’s hot and sexy if they came home to a fridge full of eyeballs and a bathtub full of smelly fish_ she thought while carefully walking down the stairs.

The memory of their impromptu tango in the courtyard at Greg and Molly’s wedding immediately and treacherously popped into her head.

_Yes, yes they would…_ Violet admitted to herself. _Asshole or not, the man looks good in a suit._   

“There she is,” Rucastle boomed when he saw Violet. “That gown is from my 2012 collection.”

“Mm,” Sherlock wore his classic “I Really Couldn’t Care Less but Am Unable to Express that Fact Verbally at this Particular Time Because I Am Undercover” expression on his face.

In other words, he looked utterly bored.

“She wears my dress well, don’t you think?” Rucastle asked Sherlock, with a touch of a challenge in his voice.

_Oh God, tonight is not going to be productive at all_ , Violet inwardly screamed in frustration as she made her way down the stairs, gripping the banister for dear life. _This is going to be a pissing match. Sherlock, you better get us an invite to The Copper Beaches out of this._

“I think she wears my shirts better,” Sherlock drawled.

Rucastle hesitated, not sure whether to be  offended or to laugh. He decided to see the humor and guffawed merrily.

Violet however nearly tripped on the hem of her dress. She and Sherlock had gotten into epic arguments in the past about her wearing his clothes. 

“Sherlock darling, don’t be crass,” Violet Smith kept her voice mild.

“Apologies, my dear Violet,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

She placed her small hand into his large one and his fingers enclosed  her entire hand.

“You two  remind me of myself and Tristan when we first got engaged,” to his credit, Rucastle got misty-eyed. “Violet, I insist you allow me to design your wedding dress.”

“Oh, I can’t… it’s too much,” Violet saw herself walking down the aisle in a gown made of duct tape and safety pins all spray painted electric blue.

“I insist. Despite today’s setback, I have been dead chuffed with the progress you’ve made with Edward in this short time. Besides, you’d be doing me a favor by letting me design your wedding dress. You know you won’t be able to hide your wedding day from the paparazzi. The publicity you’ll be giving me by wearing one of my gowns will more than pay for the cost of the design and construction. I actually started doodling a concept for you this afternoon,” he turned his back on Sherlock and Violet and started walking towards the front door. “Amazing, if I do say so myself, some of my best work, I think. This will be a dress that will get you on covers of actual magazines, not just the tabloids. And you will tell them all it was a personal gift from me.”  

Violet and Sherlock rolled their eyes behind Rucastle’s back. Sherlock let go of her hand, as she knew he would when no one was watching.

But to her surprise, she felt his pinkie graze her hand. Then link around her pinkie.

_Real_.

She looked up at him and gave him a smile. She hoped he could deduce what she was thinking: _The hell with Victor. It’ll be OK, Sherlock, I promise_.

He must have because he winked at her.

Once outside, Sherlock released her pinkie so he could help her get into the waiting limousine. It was a tight fit, with Rucastle taking up most of the space despite the fact that it was quite large in the back.

Facing Sherlock and Violet, Rucastle slapped his knees. “You’re in for a treat, Violet. I got us a table at a new restaurant opening. Very high-end, very exclusive, only London’s best will be there. People like…” and he started rattling off names of British actors, musicians and politicians as if they were his dear personal friends.

Violet felt her heart stop. Not because of excitement, but because of pure dread.

Celebrities meant _photographers_.

“Sounds fun,” Violet tried to sound excited. “I’d love Tom Hardy’s autograph.”

Rucastle looked quite pleased with himself. He shot Sherlock a snooty smile that said, _Top that_.

Sherlock ignored him. He was too busy watching Violet. When she turned her head to give him a quick panicky look, he saw how her pupils constricted to pin pricks. Looked down and saw her left hand start trembling… and then her right.

She realized it too, because she clasped her hands tightly together as she attempted to appear eager for tonight’s adventures.

But she was in full fight-or-flight mode. If she could have, she would have bolted from the car.

Mindful of his dual role, as her fake boyfriend and as her real guardian, he put his around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. He put his hand over both of her hands. The shaking stopped after a bit, but she still emitted unconscious waves of anxiety.

If it had been wintertime, he could have just hidden her within the Belstaff as they walked from the car to the restaurant. If it had been raining, he could have used an umbrella to hide her.

_Think Sherlock…_

While Rucastle continued to boast about all the dresses he had designed for A-list British actresses, Sherlock’s mind raced as the car came closer to their destination. _How am I going to hide her in plain sight on a clear summer night?_

As Rucastle began describing all the dresses in great detail that he had designed for the A-listers, Sherlock stroked Violet’s hair in the same distracted manner as he petted Gladstone when he was trying to think…

_Her hair… of course_. Perfect.

The limo came to a stop. Rucastle’s driver opened the car door. “Ladies first,” Rucastle said jovially, throwing his arm out as if Violet needed to be shown which way to go.

Violet literally froze. The flashes from the cameras were already visible.

“Give us a minute,” Sherlock purred, “As you recall, I’m the show-off, Violet’s the shy one.”

“Oh, of course, give her a bit of a pep talk,” Rucastle winked again.

Violet decided Sherlock Holmes was the only one in her world allowed to wink.

“But my dear Violet, you mustn’t be shy. You’re still attractive for middle-age.”

Violet also decided only Sherlock Holmes could call her “my dear Violet” as well.

_And what the hell..?  “You’re still attractive for middle-age…”? Oh fuck you and the horse you rode in on, douche-bag. At least I don’t look like Jabba the Hutt._

Sherlock suppressed a smirk. Good, she was getting angry. Much better than being afraid.

Rucastle hoisted himself out of his seat and began squeezing himself out of the car. It made both Sherlock and Violet think of Winnie-the-Pooh getting stuck in a hole in the ground. He didn’t get stuck though. He did bend down, however,  and say to Violet in an ominous voice, “But I do expect to see that dress in the tab-sheets tomorrow.” He slammed the car door on them.

“ _Sherlock…_ ” Violet Hunter whispered the minute the door closed.

“It’s alright Violet,” Sherlock said briskly, “Give me your handbag,” he ordered, appealing to the practical side of her nature now. She handed the clutch over and Sherlock plucked out her overlarge sunglasses out and put them on her. Then he ordered her to “Hold still.” Violet, for once, didn’t argue. She stood perfectly still as Sherlock plucked out all the kirby grips and dropped the lot in her clutch. He ran his fingers through her hair, moving locks of it this way and that, until he arranged it so a large bit of it hung over half her face. She looked like a _femme fatale_ from a _noir_ film. “There. Stay close to me. Keep this side,” he gently pressed his fingers against her left cheek, “To me. Look straight ahead at the door. It’s only five steps to the door. The photogs will snap your profile, the side of your face that’s covered with hair. Even if they get your face,” Sherlock studied her. “With the sunglasses and hair obscuring your features, even the most sophisticated face recognition software would have problems identifying you. And you applied your lipstick differently. You added more lip liner, making your lips look plumper.”

Then Sherlock reached up and scratched his neck.

“Sherlock?” Violet immediately was concerned.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It was just an itch. But if the paparazzi are causing me to have an outbreak of the hives again, I do have the allergy pills John prescribed for me in my jacket pocket and the epinephrine syringe on me, tucked into my sock.” He reached for the door handle. “Ready, my dear Violet?”

Violet Smith smiled. “That sounds so much better coming from _you_ than _him_.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m ready, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then the game begins, Miss Smith,” and Sherlock threw open the door.

The flashbulbs were blinding. It wasn’t like a film premiere or a political scandal where there were hundreds of photogs, but four or five were just as annoying as four or five hundred. Sherlock got out first. He gave them all his most disdainful looks possible. He hoped his antagonistic nature towards the press would direct the attention from Violet to him. After snarling at the photographers, he turned, bent down and helped Violet out of the car. He tried to shield her with his body as much as he could as he guided her out of the car. Her dress was completely impractical and burdensome.  And it looked like her breasts could tumble out of the bodice of her gown any minute, although he deduced they must be staying in place via some sort of double-sided tape.

The shoes looked quite awful as well. Painful, actually.

He felt quite glad to be a man. Men’s clothes were so blissfully simple compared to women’s.

Most people would call the dress Violet wore beautiful, but Sherlock thought it looked constricting and uncomfortable. _What is the point of looking beautiful if all it does is cause pain? Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize it when it’s presented to me, beauty. Because when I see things people consider beautiful, I observe the stupidity that created it and the pain it causes._

He made a mental note to try to be kind to Violet tonight. She was suffering through this ordeal not because she liked tight dresses and uncomfortable footwear. She went undercover as a favor to him.  So again, he owed her. She would need a bit of kindness tonight.

John would consider that to be Good Thing.

Also, when Sherlock took care of _her_ , he didn’t think about _him_ … about Victor. .. _Delete_ …

Violet did exactly what Sherlock told her. Yes, there would be pictures of the dress in the tabloids tomorrow… but her face stayed hidden. Even the one paparazzo that had waited by the front door and snapped a picture right in their faces didn’t get his money’s worth. Violet had ducked her head just in time. The only thing he got a snap of was red hair, big sunglasses and her chin.

When they walked into the restaurant, Rucastle waited for them along with the hostess who held three heavy leather folders, presumably the menus. “Got held up? Signing autographs, Mr. Holmes?” Rucastle winked again. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with that here. There is a strict photography rule here because so many celebrities will dine here. This establishment will cater to mostly celebrities, actually. So they can have a bit of privacy. The rule is anyone caught taking photographs with either a camera or a smartphone will have their device confiscated and then be asked to leave. After all the pictures have been deleted, of course.”

He looked downcast about that fact, actually. 

But Sherlock and Violet exchanged a look only two crime investigators could share: _I want to beat this man senseless then throw him into a prison cell._

“People don’t want my autograph, people want me to solve crimes,” Sherlock said haughtily before he could stop himself. Rucastle’s face darkened, knowing he had been in some way insulted but couldn’t suss out exactly how.

Violet removed her sunglasses and put her hand on Sherlock’s arm, silently reminding him not to offend their mark. Fortunately the hostess arrived, wearing a skimpy red dress and carrying leather-bound menus. With a “fraightfully naice” accent (that Sherlock and Violet immediately deduced was fake), she asked them to follow her to their table.

Rucastle threw his chest out like a bantam cock and announced that he had designed the hostesses’ dresses and the service staff’s uniforms in a loud voice that was meant to be overheard by all the diners. Violet was the one who made the appropriate sycophantic remarks about how lovely the outfits were. Sherlock was too busy _observing_.

There was really nothing special about the décor of the restaurant itself. It was tastefully and subtly decorated, with a color scheme of white, black, silver. Everything looked clean and modern but again, nothing that hadn’t been seen before.

However, judging by how the appetizers looked when served to the guests already seated and the smells wafting from the kitchen, the food seemed to be the main draw. Everything looked tasty and smelled delicious.

Of course Sherlock wasn’t hungry though.

And he doubted Violet would be able to eat anything, the way that stupid dress squeezed her abdomen. Couldn’t  be healthy for one’s internal organs to be squished like that…

Sherlock then perceived that many of diners really were British A-list celebrities. He noticed a few American celebrities as well, mostly actors shooting films on location in London. Sherlock observed many of the celebrities (British and American) rolling their eyes or shaking their heads slightly in annoyance as Rucastle paraded through the restaurant. The Americans, of course, were more obvious in their dislike for the fashion designer. One American actor (actually quite a prominent film star who was in many super-hero movies) actually mouthed to his wife, “Fuck, who let that asshole in?” His wife tried to hide her snicker by taking a big drink of wine.

Americans. So rude. Yet, one had to admire how they got straight to the point.

Sherlock also noticed many of the celebrities goggling at him. _That_ was annoying.

His neck itched. He felt his neck instead of scratching. He didn’t feel any rising bumps so he pushed away his growing irritation at being recognized and publicized to focus on becoming Rucastle’s Best Friend Forever in order to secure an invite to his big summer party at The Copper Beaches. Personally, Sherlock couldn’t think of anything more loathsome.

He’d rather to go a wedding.

But... time to be Sherlock Holmes.

Before he sat down, he grabbed the hostess by the crook of her arm and said smoothly, “Please do a world a favor and drop the accent. It’s obvious you grew up in the East End.”

The hostess blinked at him. Then she muttered “Bloody ‘ell,” in a pure Cockney accent as she jerked her arm out of his hand and stalked off.

“Show-off,” Violet whispered as Sherlock sat down.

But Rucastle applauded. “Wonderful. Wonderful. Although I would like to think I would spot a faked accent if I heard one.”

“So would I,” Violet Smith said, reaching for her water glass. “But you’d be surprised what we mere mortals miss,” and she gave Sherlock an adoring look. “One is never bored with you.”

A waitress came, told them about tonight’s specials, took their drink orders and left them quickly alone again. She had probably been warned by the hostess.

“What I find so interesting,” Rucastle folded his hands over his belly after the waitress left. “Is your utter disdain of publicity. I missed your guest appearances on _Crimewatch_. And you haven’t done an interview since Jim Moriarty’s countrywide broadcast on New Year’s Day. You haven’t updated your personal website since your return from the dead. I understand that the media hung you out to dry with the whole kidnapping of the ambassador’s children affair. But you have zero interest in any sort of recognition whatsoever and yet, you profess to be a show-off.”

“It is one thing to demonstrate my talents to a small circle of trusted friends or to prove a point to someone completely inept or incompetent. It is quite another to behave like a dancing monkey, to perform on cue, when a camera or microphone is stuck in my face,” Sherlock tented his fingers. “Especially when the questions rarely have to do with  my Work, but with my Personal Life,” he reached for Violet’s left hand. He had made sure to sit on Violet’s left side for this exact purpose. He lifted her hand up and lightly held her fingers in order to show off her engagement ring, solely to bait Rucastle… _look at what I have that you cannot_ …

Unfortunately, this backfired catastrophically.

“Sherly?” a woman’s voice with a thick, Irish voice piped up behind them.

Sherlock and Violet turned around.

_Oh shit_ , Violet thought.

_This is problematic_ , Sherlock thought as he said calmly, “Hello.”

Janine, her brunette hair up in a complicated twist, wore a slinky strapless black dress. She had her hand on her hip, “Thought that was you. Were you not going to even say hello?”  

Sherlock, of course, could tell by the size of her pupils and by the slight hint of wine on her breath that while she was not pissed, she definitely had indulged in an adult beverage or two.

Still, he could not help himself: “I just said hello. Did you expect something additional? Like a back-flip?”

Violet kicked him under the table.

Rucastle, recognizing Janine from last summer’s tabloid fodder, greedily watched the drama unfolding in front of him.

“Hello,” Violet went straight to her default Miss-Smith mode, extreme politeness. “You must be an old friend of Sherlock’s. How nice to meet you, I’m Violet Smith.”

“Oh I know who you are. I’ve seen the pictures of you hanging off of the Wobbly Bridge. You’re the infamous Other Woman,” Janine eyed Violet, amused. “And I’m the famous Jilted Fiancée. I really believed he loved me, so are you sure he loves you?”

_Of course he doesn’t_ love _me_. _Are you drunk or stupid?_ Violet longed to say out loud. But that was a “Violet Hunter” thought. “Violet Smith” only said, “I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

“I’m the one your bloke lied to so he could break into my boss’ headquarters. Magnussen?”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, your boss was quite an unkind person and it was little surprise someone had murdered him last winter.” Violet immediately saw her pressure point and _pushed_ , pushed _hard_. “It must have been a relief for you to be free of that tyrant. I heard he was quite abusive towards his employees…” She trailed off and quickly scanned through her memories, trying to remember what John had told her during one their late night telephone conversations when he told her exactly what had happened at Appledore that fateful Christmas night.

But Sherlock was faster. “He flicked you in the eye, Janine. He was grossly disrespectful of your personal space, and  he overworked you and underpaid you. Not to mention he was also verbally abusive as well. But you said nothing and did nothing because you knew he was the Napoleon of Blackmail. So you stayed, working for that vile man because you knew how he crushed other people and you were terrified he would do the same to you.”

Janine’s face softened. She might have even become civil towards them if her eyes hadn’t dropped to Violet’s left hand, which Sherlock still held. 

“ _What the fecking hell?_ ”

All heads in the restaurant turned towards their table.

Violet let go of Sherlock and buried her face in her hands. _Oh yeah, our pictures are definitely going to be in the rags tomorrow. Thanks Janine._

_If I get killed because of this bitch, I’m coming back to haunt her ass._

People supposedly couldn’t take pictures inside the restaurant… but there were no rules about using their mobiles to make online comments. Plus Violet knew how easy it was to snap a quick picture without anyone noticing. Violet had a feeling the majority of the social media sites were going to crash tonight.

She kept her head down, terrified of someone taking out their camera phones and filming all of this despite the supposed No Photographs Rule.

 “Is that… is that _my_ engagement ring?” Janine pointed at the ring on Violet’s finger.

“No,” Sherlock said unruffled. “It’s hers.”

 “ _You bastard_ ,” Janine cried out. Violet lifted her head.

“I am recognized by my biological father,” Sherlock said coolly, “whereas you are not, which is the leverage Magnussen had over you, of course. He’d expose who your biological father really is which would have the consequence of shaming your mother since your biological father was married to someone else when he began his affair with your mother. So technically, you’re the bastard although I don’t believe that term has been used in a legal sense in quite some time.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for the coming slap, but it never arrived.

He opened one of his eyes and saw that somehow, despite the tight dress, Violet had lunged out of her seat to seize Janine’s wrist before her hand even made contact with Sherlock’s face. She had knocked her chair over in the process.

Sherlock observed how Violet’s nails dug into Janine’s soft flesh. “Violet, let her go,” he said softly while thinking, _Miss Smith your Agent Hunter is showing…_

Violet’s feline eyes crackled with greenish-gold sparks. “Do you recall the text messages I had sent you when you whined to Mr. Holmes about why you didn’t receive as much publicity as I did?” She squeezed Janine’s wrist tight.

Janine stopped struggling. Her eyes widened.

“You really are an attention-seeking whore,” Violet’s voice was frigid. “How dare you spoil a lovely evening with this ridiculous temper tantrum? You told Mr. Holmes that he shouldn’t have lied to you because the pair of you could have been friends. Well, it takes two to maintain a friendship. He even forgave you for all the lies you told that tabloids about seven-times-in-one-night and making you wear the deer-stalker, for God’s sake. He didn’t sue you like he did Kitty Riley. So if you can’t be polite, then leave.” She let Janine go and stood up to her full height. Actually, because of her heels, she was taller. “You could have just been courteous, said hello and gone about your way.” 

Janine rubbed her wrist and tried to salvage her wounded pride. “Are you really OK with wearing another woman’s  engagement ring?”

“Oh please,” Violet said witheringly. “It was never yours to begin with. He never gave it to you. He only showed it to you on the security monitor. He never had a chance to return it after he got shot. It would have been a waste of money to purchase another ring. I would have been angry if he had been so foolish to do so.”

Sherlock felt that weird _longing_ to kiss her again.

As a rule, women usually didn’t defend him. Or even like him, really.

Rucastle turned around to the diners behind him “This is why my son finally stopped acting up. Best nanny I’ve ever hired. And yes, that dress she’s wearing is from my 2012 collection.”

Violet crossed her arms and glared at Janine, trying to hide how desperately terrified she felt. She was the focus of every pair of eyes in the restaurant. Feeling quite conspicuous in her risqué dress with the cut-outs and the plunging neckline, Violet nevertheless held her ground.

“Janine,” Sherlock found his voice. “When I was still in the hospital and I said we were good, I meant it. Unfortunately you were one of the causalities in the war fought against Magnussen and I do regret that. Also, your date just ditched you.”    

Janine quickly turned around and saw the table she had been sitting at, was now in fact, empty.

She shook her head at Violet, “He’ll only hurt you,” she said quietly to Violet. “Your love story, it doesn’t have a happy ending.” She slinked off to retrieve her handbag and to make her escape.

Violet tried to pick up her chair but discovered she really couldn’t bend over in her dress. “Little help please, Sherlock,” she whispered but a server materialized out of thin air, put the chair to rights and pulled it out for her.

Violet sat and the server pushed her in while whispering under his breath, “ _Wow…_ ”

“I need a drink,” Violet hissed at the server,“Scotch, neat. _Now_.”

“Yes ma’am,” and he took off.

 She balled her fists. Her hands were shaking again. But she knew this time it was because of pure unadulterated rage.

“I am so sorry,” she said to Rucastle, trying to look submissive and demure.

But he only stared at her in open admiration. Then he laughed. “That’s why I said _electric blue_ is your color! I was right. There is something deep and mysterious about you. But so much tension, so much _electricity_ within you. But you are as blue as the sea. I wonder,” he grinned at Sherlock,“I wonder if I can deduce you like Mr. Holmes can. If I can determine why you are so sad.”

“Probably not,” Sherlock informed him.

Rucastle shrugged and affably agreed, “Probably not.”  Unlike Sherlock and Violet, he was positively relishing being in the spotlight. Especially since Violet’s tirade had meant everyone had _stared_ at the dress _he_ designed. “The sea… the sea…” he drummed his fingers against his lips as their original waitress brought Violet her drink and scampered off quickly again. Then Rucastle asked her: “How would you and Mr. Holmes like to come to The Copper Beaches? I usually hire locals from Cornwall to help when we’re on holiday there but I could use another pair of hands with Edward. You and Mr. Holmes would definitely liven up any party. It’s all on me. You wouldn’t have to pay a penny.” And he winked. Again. “Consider it another birthday present, my dear Violet.”

Violet wanted to slap him.

“That’s very generous of you,” Sherlock demurred. “But I’m not good with people.” He paused then added, looking at Janine’s empty table, “Obviously.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part! There won’t be that many people about. It would just be the Tollers, Mrs. Rucastle, Edward and I!” he beamed. “My Summer’s End party starts on August 16th and yes, there will be loads of people there, some of them are even in this restaurant, even though I haven’t received their RVSPs yet!” he raised his voice slightly.

Sherlock deduced that Violet wanted to crawl under the table now. He didn’t blame her. He felt the same way. He observed how some of the diners now stopped looking their way and in fact, acted like they didn’t hear Rucastle.

“However,” Rucastle said, sticking his fat pointer finger in the air. “My friends who were supposed to rent the place next week had an unexpected family emergency and had to cancel. So I was planning on a mental health retreat. On my own. With just me and the family and would love it if the pair of you joined us.”

“Ah, when?” Violet’s head spun.

“Monday.”

“Monday?” Violet echoed, stalling for time, “This coming Monday?”

“Yes, well, you would come Monday. I plan on leaving tomorrow actually. Originally, I was just going to go down myself with the missus and leave Edward behind with you and the Tollers-”

_And when were you planning on telling me this?_ Violet fumed.

“But, oh I do think having you two along would be fun. And that means I could bring Edward, so it would be a working holiday, Violet, but I’ll double, no, treble your salary for that week.”

Sherlock thought fast “Again, a generous offer. But my friend John and I had planned on travelling to Sutherland. Our annual fishing holiday, you see. And Mrs. Watson was going to stay with Violet. It’s been planned for weeks,” he lied smoothly. 

As Sherlock knew he would, Rucastle boomed “Bring them! I’d love to meet the Man Behind the Blog. We’ll be in Cornwall. The fishing is magnificent in St. Ives. And I’m sure Mrs. Watson is charming as well. Now,” he reached for his menu. “I am famished. Hopefully that unfortunate episode will be the last bit of drama because I hate it when supper is interrupted.”

“Obvio-,” Sherlock started to say but Violet kicked him under the table again. “OW, I mean, of course. How rude,” he glared at Violet. 

However, Rucastle’s wish was not to be granted.

Halfway through the main course, as Rucastle moaned in orgasmic delight over his food while Sherlock and Violet picked at theirs, Violet’s mobile buzzed within her clutch.

“Apologies,” Violet put her fork and knife down and reached for her clutch.

“Problem?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Possibly,” Violet took her pre-paid mobile out. Her eyes widened when she read the message. “I am so sorry again,” she said faintly. “But I must leave at once.”

“Leave? Why?” Rucastle looked crestfallen. “We haven’t even had pudding yet. And it’s your birthday supper.”

“It’s my… brother. Michael,” Violet improvised. “He’s in trouble. I have to go bail him out.”

“Bail him out… do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

Violet smiled wanly at Rucastle. “Well… you said you wanted to know why I was sad all the time. So, now you know. He got himself a bit over his head and... I’m so sorry again, this was so lovely and I am really looking forward to The Copper Beaches even though it’s a working holiday, no Sherlock, stay,” she said when he rose the same time she did. “Don’t cut your night short because my brother’s an idiot.”

“If you are quite sure,” he said, leaning down to kiss Violet on the cheek. He whispered one word in her ear: “Mary?”

“Yes,” she breathed back when she returned the kiss on his cheek.

Sherlock sat down again. “You know where to find me,” he said, pulling the cloth napkin over his lap again. Then he tented his fingers as he stared at Rucastle, thinking _This could be fun… let’s see if I can cause him to make a mistake, show his hand… subconsciously tell me where Evie Payne-Ellis is…_

He gave Rucastle a grin that could only be described as “Grinch-like”. “So Jepthro, what made you decide to go into fashion design rather than pursue academia? Violet tells me you are a fan of Greek mythology, primarily the story of Hades and Persephone?”

Meanwhile Violet acted like she was going to visit the lavatory before leaving the restaurant. Instead, when no one was looking, she ducked through the swinging doors that were clearly marked “Staff Only.” Desperately she looked around for clothes. She couldn’t leave wearing a dress like this and she didn’t have time to go back to 221B Baker Street to change. She spied the small lockers where the staff kept their personal belongings. She took out one of the kirby grips Sherlock had dropped into her clutch, bent and twisted it until she could use it to pick the lock of the lockers. The first locker contained only a handbag and mobile. The second, a teeny tiny party dress Violet knew there was no way she could fit into. The dress she already wore was tight enough, thank you very much. She needed to be able to move. She hit pay dirt on the third locker. Granted, they were men’s clothes, but they would do. She nicked not just the trousers and t-shirt, but the ball cap and thong sandals as well. Guiltily, she threw several bank notes into the locker and shut the door and locked it again. Then she shut herself up in the private lavatory for the staff only and locked the door.

With a sigh of pure relief, she took off the hellish high heels. Not giving a single damn about the hours of craftsmanship put into the dress, Violet yanked the zip down roughly and stuck her hand inside the bodice and peeled away the double-stick tape. “Ow! Fuck,” her eyes watered as the tape pulled at her skin. Once free of the tape, she shimmied out of the horrid dress, hearing some of the seams ripping as she pushed the dress down her hips. She quickly pulled the t-shirt on next, hating the fact she had no bra. She pulled the trousers up and was relieved they mostly fit. The bloke she stole them from must be skinny as a rail as well as short. But she still had to cuff the bottom of the trousers so she wouldn’t trip. Violet then put the ball cap on and tucked her long hair up in it. She took only the necessary items out of the clutch, both of her mobiles, her bank card, what was left of her cash and her false “Violet Smith” identification card and stuck them in the back pocket of the trousers. The rest was useless to her. She slipped her feet into the thongs her Midwestern American mind always called “flip flops”. They were a bit big, but she’d manage.

Lastly, she wetted a paper towel and wiped off her eye make-up and lipstick. She felt naked, but the mix of casual clothes and fancy cosmetics would be noticeable.

She pressed her ear against the door, listening for people, praying the owner of the clothes she wore wouldn’t come into the staff’s lounge. Once sure she was alone, she crept out of the lavatory, carrying the dress, the clutch and the shoes. She dropped these items in the rubbish bin and then took the lining out and tied it shut.

Then she looked up and saw the window above the lockers. It was small, it’d be a tight fit, but it wasn’t barred and she knew she could squeeze through it. She tossed the rubbish bag up onto of the lockers and then pulled a chair up to the locker, using it as a step-stool. She pulled herself up and lay on her back on top of the lockers for a moment. Her arms felt rubbery from pulling herself up and she also felt out of breath. She didn’t lay there for long thought. She awkwardly rolled to her side and fiddled with the window until it popped open. She stuck her head out, saw it wasn’t much of a drop. She threw the rubbish bag out onto the ground then twisted herself this way and that so her feet stuck out of the window. Inch by inch, she wiggled her way out until she was holding onto the window sill, her feet dangling. Her arms felt shaky again so she let go.

She landed softly on her feet, turned around and looked right to left. Then she cursed herself for being so stupid, so _American_. A Brit would have looked left to right, that was their flow of traffic. But that was irrelevant as she was alone in the alley. She walked towards a large rubbish bin and tossed the bag containing a designer dress, shoes and clutch all worth thousands of pounds neatly inside. She walked quickly, feeling completely vulnerable. No weapons at all. But 221B Baker Street was on the complete opposite side of the City she needed to be on. Time was not on her side at the moment.

Her mobile vibrated, not the prepaid, the one Sherlock had bought her after their tumble into the Thames River last March.

She waited until she was out of the alley and on the pavement to check her messages. Quite unsurprisingly, when she encountered the paparazzi still milling around the new restaurant that obviously catered to the rich and famous, they ignored her. They didn’t _observe_.

Walking past them, Violet entered her pass-code and read the message from Sherlock:

You are two blocks north from my nearest bolt-hole.  
There are some supplies there you may find useful.   
Do your best to persuade Mary to let me help  
With her side project - SH

Violet smiled and texted “OK” back at him and waited for the address. When the address of his bolt-hole came, there was a postscript:

Remember, if you are in danger or doubt,  
A text will bring me to your side. - SH

She texted him back:

I know.  
I will bring Mary home – VS

Violet tucked the mobile in her pocket and held her hand up, hailing a cab.

Her heart raced as a black cab slowed down for her.

She quickly gave the address to the cabbie. “Hurry,” she added all the while thinking _Oh Mary, what have you done?”_


	17. White Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Violet stepped into the doorframe. “Oh my God,” she gasped before she could help herself. 
> 
> Mary was dressed in black from head to toe. There was a gun in a holster on her hip. She leaned against a counter that divided the lounge from the kitchen. There was a battery-operated lantern on the counter, producing a feeble glow. 
> 
> Mary stared dispassionately at the young woman tied to a chair in the lounge. There was no other furniture and were no other guests. 
> 
> Even though the woman was gagged and blindfolded, Violet recognized her..."
> 
>  
> 
> Mary, Mary, quite contrary,   
> how does your garden grow?  
> With bullet shells and the fires of hell  
> And pretty corpses all in a row...

Chapter Seventeen;

7 August 2015  
Somewhere in London  
Friday night   
10:00 PM

Violet decided  she was glad she had stopped at Sherlock’s bolt-hole first. It had reminded her of the private garage her old boss Section Chief Robert Carson (known to the English world as Robert Carruthers) once had, where he kept a variety of vehicles.

In this particular bolt-hole of Sherlock’s, she saw a non-descript van and two motorcycles. Violet fell in love with the bikes immediately.

One of the walls was lined with shelves, stocked with all sorts of practical supplies. If there was any sort of national emergency or the Apocalypse were to  begin, this was the place to be. As she examined the shelves, to her surprise, she also found four separate sets of ladies’ clothes as well as an array of men’s clothes and uniforms. One shelf contained clothes and shoes in her size and on three other shelves, clothes in different sizes that Violet guessed were the sizes Mary, Molly and Mrs. Hudson wore. What was more astounding was the sizes were current; why else would Sherlock have maternity clothes stashed away? Violet had a feeling Sherlock had stocked-piled all his bolt-holes with women’s clothing in case for whatever reason, the women who counted in his life had to make a quick escape.

An unexpected warm rush of pleasure ran through her entire body. _I’m one of the women in his life that_ matters.

Then she sternly told herself to focus and just be glad there was a bra and trainers that fit her.

After she changed her clothes, she poked around a little more and found a gun and an extra clip in the bolt-hole as well.

She had no idea it once belonged to John Watson. Sherlock had stolen it from him after they had been told Maisie had died.

She was just glad to have a weapon of some sort as well as to be wearing proper women’s trousers that fit correctly around her hips and thighs. She loaded the weapon, checked the sights, tucked it into the waistband of her trousers and pulled the t-shirt she had stolen at the restaurant over it. The slightly baggy man’s shirt concealed the gun. She also grabbed a pocket knife as well. Just as well.

While she drooled over the pristine Ducati Monster 821, she forced herself to hop on the Yamaha SR400, the less conspicuous of the two motorcycles. _But I’m taking that bad boy out for a ride one of these days,_ she promised herself as she cast one more wistful look at the Ducati before putting the helmet on. She checked the gauges on the Yamaha and was relieved to see it full of petrol. The key was also in the ignition so she fired it up and was off to meet Mary.

.

Twenty minutes later, Violet parked the motorcycle in the alley behind the abandoned block of flats Mary had texted her to meet at. She took the helmet off, smoothed her hair back and looked around.

“Fuck…” she whispered to herself, swinging her leg over the bike as she dismounted.

She crept around the building. It had been a nice block of flats once but obviously was now  used as some sort of flop house. She pulled the gun out of the waistband and racked the sight. She found a door that was unlocked and pushed it open, gun pointed out in front of her. She wished Gladstone was with her. “Hello?” Violet called out in her “Miss Smith” voice, creeping through what once was the lobby where all the postboxes for the individual flats had been. There were spider webs and rubbish everywhere. “Hello? I got your message, I’m here,” Violet called out again, unwilling to call out Mary’s name or her own.

After a minute or two (a minute or two too long in that spooky gloom in Violet’s opinion), her prepaid mobile vibrated. Violet took it out of her back pocket and read the message:

Second floor, first flat on the left.

Violet looked up at the darkened staircase ahead of her. It was pitch black.

“Oh goodie,” she sighed.

Using the prepaid’s lit up screen as a torch, she crept up the stairs, every step creaking loudly as she stepped on it. Violet became more afraid of the steps breaking than of being jumped by an enemy. Agonizingly slowly, she made her way up the stairs, wishing she had made Sherlock come with her… but he needed to continue his charade with Rucastle, pretending that he was interested in being _friends_ with him. 

_I should have called_ _John,_ she realized too late when she found the flat Mary was in.

The door was open. There was a dim light glowing from within.

Violet stepped into the doorframe. “Oh my God,” she gasped before she could help herself.

Mary was dressed in black from head to toe. There was a gun in a holster on her hip. She leaned against a counter that divided the lounge from the kitchen. There was a battery-operated lantern on the counter, producing a feeble glow. 

Mary stared dispassionately at the young woman tied to a chair in the lounge. There was no other furniture and were no other guests.

Even though the woman was gagged and blindfolded, Violet recognized her.

_Anthea…_

Mary must have been holding  her prisoner for at least two days now. Her hair looked unwashed. Her clothes were dingy and crumpled. When she heard the voice of a second person in the room, she jerked her head up, straining to hear who was there.

_Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit… not good, not good, not good…_

“Come in,” Mary said, in Russian.

Violet licked her lips, lowered her gun and entered the flat. Like the rest of the building, it was covered with dust, full of spider webs and rubbish was everywhere. 

“What have you done?” Violet replied hoarsely, also in Russian.

“She murdered the nurse who took care of my daughter,” Mary spoke again in Russian. “I want to know why and I want to know where my daughter is now.”

“This is wrong,” Violet switched back to English, the King’s English, not American. Remembering Sherlock’s dire warnings about Mycroft, she added. “We have to let her go. You know her boss will look for her. This could blow back on your husband.”

“Don’t,” Mary continued to speak in Russian, “Don’t try to use my husband to manipulate me. This woman,” Mary took her gun out and pointed it at Anthea, who started struggling against her bonds, “Murdered that nurse in cold blood to cover up my daughter’s abduction. She had her phone lines tapped. She overheard her telephone conversation to Maggie Jenner that she had evidence to prove my daughter was abducted. The punch-line to this joke?” Mary lowered her gun. “The punch-line is there was no evidence. Jennifer was acting on a pure hunch. After Jennifer was killed, her good friend Maggie Jenner went to her flat to look for the proof. _There wasn’t any._ She had lied to Maggie just so she would stop nagging her that she was wrong about my daughter being abducted. Isn’t that funny?” Mary even laughed a little. “See, Jennifer was going to seek me and John out to tell us about her suspicions. But she didn’t have a shred of evidence. What a good joke that is, don’t you think?”

“When did you talk to Maggie Jenner?” Violet suddenly wished she hadn’t lowered her weapon.

“Oh, didn’t the Great Consulting Detective tell you?” Mary refused to speak in English. “She was one of them, the _Rouge_. She was a spy. She was ordered to befriend Molly Hooper after Sherlock returned from his Great Hiatus. After my daughter disappeared, she was also ordered to get to know Jennifer Boyle as well.”

“Why?” Violet asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if the _Rouge_ is also trying to locate my daughter. Especially if Jennifer had expressed her opinion to others that maybe Baby Girl Watson didn’t die of a lung infection. Wouldn’t that be the perfect leverage to use against John? The one person who could get John Watson to turn his back on Sherlock Holmes would be…”

“His daughter…” Violet finished weakly, in the King’s English. But she switched back to Russian. “Alright, I’ll help you. I’ll interrogate her. But we do this my way and you tell your husband the truth. Not only does Sherlock know, but so does John.”

Mary blanched.

Russian was not a language Violet was fluent in, but she knew enough to understand what was being said and she could speak it well enough to get her point across. So she spoke slowly, painfully aware she conjugated some of the verbs in the wrong tense: “I did the best I could but you knew Sherlock would figure out what we were up to eventually. So, no more lies. I will help question her. Then we let her go.”

“Are you mad?” Mary burst out in English.

“Killing her is suicide!” Violet yelled back, but in Russian. “Her boss will come after us. There will be nothing John or Sherlock can do to stop him and neither one of us can leave the British Isles. Even if we could get out of England, our safety is not guaranteed in any other country.” She softened her voice but continued in Russian, “And you don’t want to leave England. You don’t want to leave John. He is your last chance for a normal life, especially if we find your daughter. But that means Anthea must live and the lies stop. We question her, we let her go and you go home to your husband and tell him what has been happening.” Violet switched back into English, but _her_ English, nasally and Midwestern. “It’s either my way or you’re on your own.”

“How do we guarantee her silence?” Mary finally asked… in English.

“Leave that to me,” Violet crossed over to the bound Anthea. She tugged the gag down and pulled the blindfold off. Anthea blinked. Violet grabbed the woman by her dirty hair, jerked her head up so she had to look at Violet. “You know who I am, who I _really am_ , don’t you?”

Anthea nodded and tried to cringe away from her.

Violet twisted Anthea’s hair more tightly  in her fingers. “So you know I couldn’t give two shits whether or not you die. You’re only alive right now because of the British Government. He would track me and her,” she tilted her head towards Mary, “down in a heartbeat.” She let go of her hair and backed away from Anthea. “But doubtful if he could stop Sherlock Holmes. You also know he blew Magnussen’s head off last Christmas too, right?”

“Yes,” Anthea whispered.

“And he got away with it scot-free. Besides,” Violet snorted derisively “A suicide mission in Serbia? Please. If Moriarty hadn’t made his big-screen debut in Piccadilly, Sherlock would have slipped out of Serbia probably before the private jet would have touched down. This is the man who survived a nosedive off of St. Bart’s.”

“There was an air mattress…” Anthea started to say.

But Violet cut her off “Bullshit. The official story is bullshit and you know it. Your boss created that story. So,” Violet continued conversationally, “You know that Sherlock is definitely smart enough to kill you and completely get away with it too… assuming John Watson doesn’t beat him to it first. Do you think if Dr. Watson discovered your role in the abduction of his daughter, you would have a very long lifespan?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Anthea whimpered.

Violet put her finger to her lips. Then she lowered her hand. “It’s listening time now, Anthea, not talking time. So, to recap, you know that Sherlock Holmes would probably kill you and hide your body so well that no one, not even Mycroft could find your rotting corpse. John Watson would just kill you and not fucking care about the consequences… and then there’s your boss. How happy do you think he’s going to be when he finds out how badly you fucked this all up?”

“Wait… what?”

Violet rolled her eyes. “You fucked up, Anthea. It was your job to keep this quiet. You made it worse. You received bad intelligence, you acted on that bad intelligence and you killed an innocent woman. One of the Greater Good that you and your boss are supposed to protect.”

“My source said the information was good,” Anthea showed a spark of defiance now.

Violet got right in her face. “Did you verify that information yourself?”

“I had no reason to disbelieve what was reported to me.”

Violet laughed “Oh my God, really? Did you happen to get that information from the same ‘source’,” she made the obnoxious quotations sign with her fingers, “As the US did about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? ‘Cause… _look_ how well that went for my country.” Quick as cat, she reached out and slapped Anthea lightly in the face. “Where is Marissa Watson?”

“I don’t know.’

Violet slapped her again, a bit harder. “Where is Marissa Watson?”

“I don’t kn-”

Violet backhanded her. As a federal agent, she had never ever touched a suspect she had interrogated. It was against the regulations to do so.

_But I’m not a federal agent anymore… and we need to find this kid. Fast. Fuck the rules._

Violet reached into her back pocket and pulled out the pocket knife. She unfolded the blade. “I said we’d let you live. I never said we’d let you continue being pretty.”

“I’m not lying,” Anthea shrunk away from Violet as much as she could. “I don’t know where the baby is and my orders to kill the nurse didn’t come from Mycroft.”

That caused Violet to pause. She looked over her shoulder at Mary. She looked just as baffled as Violet felt. Then Violet asked softly, dangerously “Who are you really working for then?”

“It’s not what you think,” Anthea kept her eyes on the pocket knife.

“Then correct me,” Violet examined the blade, pressing her thumb down on its edge. “Hm, it’s dull… oh well. Guess that means it’s just going to hurt that much more.’

“I’m not the MI-6 mole!” Anthea burst out in a panic.

Violet and Mary exchanged glances again. “Then who is?” Violet continued smoothly, as if she knew about the mole the entire time.

“I don’t know either. That’s why Mycroft and Sherlock mended fences. Mycroft needs Sherlock to find the mole.”

_Oh really?_ Violet thought. _And he’s been busting my chops for lying about looking for Maisie and asking Mycroft questions about Victor Trevor? Oh Mr. Consulting Detective, you and I are going to have a long chat tonight…_

“Security’s been tightened. When I say I didn’t get the order from Mycroft, I mean it. All of my orders from Mycroft are verbal. I got the order to terminate Jennifer Boyle via encrypted message on our secure intranet. I also got a valid license to kill, temporary double-O status, to take her out as well.”

“That’s a thing? Double-O is actually a thing?” Violet laughed. “Shit, I thought that was only in the movies. Are you telling me you might have gotten the orders from _the_ James Bond himself?”

“It could have been. I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell _her_ for the past two days as well!”

“You know who she really is as well. My presence is the only thing keeping her from putting a bullet in your empty skull,” Violet purposely made her voice sound bored. “I highly recommend you stop pissing me off. I don’t give a _flying fuck_ about your black ops. The only thing I want to know is where Marissa Watson is right now.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Anthea definitely sounded panicky now. “I don’t know where the orders came from to terminate Jennif-”

“Stop sugar-coating it,” Violet sneered. “You murdered her. She was a young woman, like you. Unlike you, she worked to save lives. Specifically, to save babies. And you didn’t question why a young woman with no criminal record and no ties to any sort of criminal enterprise, was marked for death, sanctioned by your fantastic government?” When Anthea didn’t reply, Violet leaned forward and whispered “Did it ever cross your mind that the order came from the mole?”

Anthea’s eyes widened in horror as the magnitude of her error sank in,

“Always check your sources. Always do your research,” Violet said flatly. “So, princess, you need to start talking to _me_. Well, unless you don’t want to, of course. Talk to _me_ ,” Violet snapped the pocket knife shut and took out her mobile out. She scrolled through her list of contacts and held up her mobile for Anthea to see. “I can always text _him_.”

The name “Sherlock Holmes” was lit up on the screen.

“Trust me, I’m easier to deal with. Where is Marissa Watson?”

“She’s safe,” Anthea finally admitted. “She’s alive, she’s safe but that is all I know. Security’s been tightened, like I said. And Mycroft doesn’t tell me everything.”

“Where is Mycroft keeping his secrets these days?”

“I don’t kn-”

Violet punched her, not hard enough to knock her out, but hard enough to hurt. “If you say ‘I don’t know’ one more goddamned time  I will start trimming unnecessary body parts off. Starting with your cute button nose.”

Her cute button nose bled profusely now. “He has bolt-holes all over the city, like Sherlock… but… he’s been going to the country estate a lot lately,” she managed to spit out. She sounded like she had a very bad cold. “Mycroft’s been working remotely from there a lot actually. He only comes back to the City when he needs to speak to Sherlock in person.”

“You bet your pretty face on that? The knife can come back out.”

Anthea looked at Mary. “Your daughter is alive. I stake my life on it.”

“And we’re going to hold you to that,” Violet purred. Roughly, she grabbed Anthea’s chin and twisted her face up. Anthea whimpered. She would have bruises there in the morning.

Violet stared into Anthea’s terrified eyes. “If you breathe a word about this to Mycroft, you die. If he deduces what happened here tonight and acts on it, you die.” Violet let go of Anthea’s face. “Go back to the typing pool, little girl. This is not the kind of life for you.” She tucked her mobile away and took out the knife again. Anthea cringed but Violet said “Relax. We’re done. But if you try anything adorable, like attack me, well,” Violet looked over her shoulder.

Mary pointed her gun at Anthea’s head.

Violet sawed through the ropes that bound Anthea’s wrists and ankles. She stood up and looked uncertainly at the two women.

“Call in sick for about a week,” Violet advised, crossing her arms.

Mary put the gun down.

Anthea got the hint. She bolted from the room like a scared rabbit. 

“Tell James Bond I said hi,” Violet called after her.

“Could she be the mole?” Mary asked when Anthea was gone.

“No,” Violet shook her head. “She’s young and arrogant. She got herself in over her head. She made a stupid mistake that got an innocent woman killed.”

“Threatening her with Mycroft,” Mary nodded approvingly. “Smart move. So, when are we going to the Holmes estate?”

“ _What?_ Oh HELL no!” Violet shook her head, her face the very picture of dismay. “Mary, we’re only going to get away with this stunt because that girl is scared shitless. We got confirmation. Maisie’s alive. Let’s call the boys, let’s get reinforcements. I’m not going into the lion’s den on my own, especially with the leads we just got on the Burned Girls case and Lady Elise’s murder.”

“What has happened?” Mary asked.

Violet gave Mary a quick summary of what had happened while Mary had been stalking and kidnapping Anthea. Mary’s eyes widened and she made a mental note to call the young lady, Josie Tey, and try once again to convince her to go to Sherlock about the woman who tried to abduct her. However, Mary was also hit with a bolt of inspiration: “If Rucastle goes on holiday tomorrow, John and Sherlock can go investigate that House of Horrors while you and I go to the estate. I know where it is. John and I had to fetch Sherlock from there one night, long story, but please, Violet. Please, we are so close to finding her,” Mary begged, no longer the cold assassin. “The boys can hold their own. They did in the past, before they met us, at any rate.”

“This is such an epically bad idea,” Violet groaned.

“Time is not on our side,” Mary pleaded. “You said it yourself. Mycroft will deduce what happened here, just as Sherlock figured out what we’ve really been doing. It’s either tomorrow or I’m going to lose  Maisie forever.”  

“Mary, what were you going to do with Anthea if I hadn’t come tonight?” Violet asked warily.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Mary said darkly.

Violet looked at Mary’s gun. “Yeah, we were definitely on opposing teams in our old lives.”

“But those lives are over and gone,” Mary reminded her. “This life, this is our lot now.”

Violet closed her eyes. _Big picture Violet_ … a child’s life was at stake. 

And… _if Mycroft keeps his secrets at the old family estates, I could find the leverage I need to get Mycroft off of not just my back but Sherlock’s as well…_

_I wonder how the world would react  if they found out Mycroft Holmes authorized the illegal execution of his adopted older brother?_

_Would Sherlock cry if they hanged Mycroft for treason? For murder?_

“OK,” Violet opened her eyes. “I’m in.”

**

7 August 2015  
Somewhere in England  
Friday night  
11:57 PM

The leather straps bit into her wrists and ankles. They were too tight. Her fingers felt tingly and weird and she couldn’t even feel her feet anymore.

The metal table was cold against her exposed skin. She wore only her bra, knickers and a blindfold. Some sort of silky material was tied around her mouth. The air conditioner was on full-blast in whatever room she was in. Goose-pimples covered her entire body.

But that could have been caused by the fear as well.

When she came out of her second druggy stupor and found herself tied down, blindfolded and gagged, she panicked utterly and fought against her bonds while a terrified mantra screamed through her head _Burned Girls, Burned Girls, Burned Girls…_ which was punctuated with internal chants of _Stupid stupid stupid stupid….!_

How could she have been so _fucking_ stupid?

She hoped valiantly Josie figured out she had lied to her about applying at Westaways.

Oh, the bastards had been clever though. A black sedan had picked her up, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would make one’s eyebrows twitch in alarm. The driver had opened the door for her. There had been no complaints about this client. He was an old fuddy-duddy who didn’t like to go to parties alone. He also was well past his prime, didn’t like the pressure of trying to please a woman in the bedroom anymore and he’d be damned if he’d take  those little blue pills. He just liked a pretty face and pleasant company.

… or that was the story sold to Westaways at any rate.

So, without an ounce of fear, a scrap of concern, she got into the car, in the front seat, next to the driver, a stringy old man who smelled like mothballs, talc powder and… something else but she couldn’t place her finger on it. She shrugged and put her seatbelt on.

Once the vehicle was in motion, she and the driver started chitchatting, making pleasant small talk. The driver had a soft voice for a man. The driver asked her if she’d like a coffee and she had said oh yes please. It was going to be a long night. At a red light, the driver took out a thermos and poured two paper cups of coffee. The coffee was very good and very, _very_ sweet.

Instead of perking up, she felt very sluggish. Slow.

Stupid.

Too late she noticed the driver never touched her coffee.

Too late she recognized the scent from the driver… it was an old lady’s scent… a perfume… what had Josie said it was called…

“Hang on,” she had said thickly, struggling to keep her eyelids open, “You’re… a _lady?_ ”

She had no idea how long she had been out the first time. When she regained consciousness, she was blind-folded and handcuffed, but seated in a comfortable chair. “What do you think?” an unctuous voice had asked… someone.

She felt a big meaty hand on her face. “Mmm… not quite,” a different voice mused. “More of an Athena or possibly an Andromeda-type. But she’ll do for now.” 

She felt a mobile placed against her ear. She followed their instructions to the letter. She gave the performance of a lifetime. What choice did she have? So she gave the proper signals to Missy Stroper that everyone was A-OK and she was safe and sound.

Then she cried out as she felt a needle jab into her neck.

Then she passed out again.

When she awoke again was when she found herself nearly naked and strapped down.

Her gag was removed from time to time to give her liquid. Milk in the morning, tea in the evening, water every three hours throughout the day. When she had been brave enough to ask to use the toilet, the Unctuous Voice informed her if she soiled herself, they’d hose her down.

And eventually they did hose her down, gently, with warm water and fragrant  soap. Then patted her dry with a towel and rubbed her skin with lotion. They washed her hair and combed it . They gave her a manicure and pedicure. “You’re a piece of art now,” a voice had purred. “Right now, we’re sculpting you. Once we reduce your weight to where it needs to be, we’ll start feeding you actual food. But right now, you’re a bit thicker than we care for so liquid diet it is.”

Between the humiliation and the starvation and the never-ending fear, she believed she would go stark-raving mad before this was over.

But what was _Over_?

_Burned Girls… Burned Girls… Burned Girls…_

_Stop it, stop it, stop it!_ She ordered herself. _Josie will call Mum and Dad and they’ll go to the police. And Josie will tell someone about the madwoman who attacked her…_

_… unless Josie doesn’t figure it out I lied to her about joining Westaways… no, stop thinking that way. Josie is your friend, she won’t let you down. So just keep doing what they are telling you to do and stay alive until someone finds you. Someone will find you… I’m not a Burned Girl, this is not the same as the Burned Girls… oh God… oh GodohGodohGod…_

She heard the door open and two pairs of feet clomp down the stairs. And there were voices… the same two voices since this horror began…

“… do you think that’s wise?”

“Wise or not, we need to get out of the city. Once we’re isolated, we can arrange for a few accidents and we can put this regrettable mess behind us.”

“Of course, sir. Forgive me. I was only looking out for your best interests.”

“And yours. Don’t take me for a fool.”

The voices were very close now. They were hovering by her head.

“Pity,” the deeper voice said. “I had hoped to have more time with this one. She had so much potential.” His meaty hand was on her face again.

She forced herself to lie still, to not act repulsed by his touch.

“Shall I dispose of her now sir?” the second voice, the Unctuous Voice, sounded eager.

“Mmm,” now the mystery hand ran down her hair. “Not yet. We just need to adjust our time table, speed up our schedule.”

“Of course sir,” the second voice sounded disappointed.

“And no more public disposals, that is an order.”

“Of course, understandable and I quite agree with you. But-”

“I don’t give a damn what The Boss said,” the man stopped stroking her hair.

“The Boss said we must follow his plan to the letter if it is to succeed.”

“Well it’s not his arse on the line now is it?” Deep Voice shouted. His voice echoed off the walls. “He’s not even in the country right now, plus he owes his status and position to _me_. If I go down, he comes with me and he bloody well best remember that.” He ran his hand over her hair again. “I despise long hair. Cut it off. Not all of it, but short. Give her a pixie cut. She has the right face shape for it. I can definitely see her as an Athena once this horse’s tail is gone.”

“Tonight sir?”

“Tonight. Then tranquilize her and make the preparations to go to the sea. I want to leave tomorrow. I need to get London out of my lungs.”

“And uh,” Unctuous Voice cleared his throat daintily “The hair, sir? After it’s been cut off?”

“Burn it.”

At those words, Evie Payne-Ellis lost any semblance of calm and control. She screamed ineffectively against the gag and struggled against her bonds.

“Oh drug her now,” Deep Voice said wearily. “I do not wish to listen to the pathetic hysterics of women. It throws my creativity off.”

_**_

8 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Saturday morning   
7:01 AM

Sherlock woke with a start, heart racing, his entire body covered with a cold sweat.

He blinked. Morning light streamed through the cracks of his drapes.

Gladstone whined and nosed his hand. Sherlock absently scratched the dog’s ears as he took deep, calming breaths to slow his heart rate.

Of course. He would have to have one of his stupid post-traumatic stress disorder induced dreams _now_.  And he probably had cried out in his sleep and woken up Violet as well.

Bloody wonderful.

Sherlock had already gotten out of bed and started stripping the sweat-soaked linens off when Violet reached his room. The humidity turned her hair into a frizzy mess and she still wore the men’s t-shirt she had nicked from the restaurant. It ended right in the middle of her thigh.

“Go back to sleep, Violet,” he grumbled as Gladstone went to her. “Have a lie-in for once.”  

“I’m awake, been awake for a while now,” Violet told him as she walked around the other side of the bed and started helping him. “Go change your jammies. I’ll take care of this.”

Sherlock was acutely aware his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms were drenched with sweat, but he couldn’t resist. “Jammies?”

She gave him one of her infamous withering looks. “Shut up and do what I say, for once.”

He raided his chest of drawers for a clean t-shirt and “jammie” bottoms and ducked into his small private bathroom. After changing and splashing cool water on his face and cleaning his teeth, he already felt marginally better.

He snatched his favorite dressing-gown off the peg and left the bathroom to find that Violet had put his bed mostly to rights. “I feel like a cuppa,” he announced. “Neither one of us are going to go back to sleep anyway. Come along, Violet and here,” he tossed the dressing-gown at her. “You were just going to nick it anyway. I can smell your deodorant on it every time you wear it.” 

Violet rolled her eyes but she pulled the dressing-gown on.

Pushing the sleeves up, she trailed after Sherlock as he padded barefoot down the hall. Gladstone danced around both of them happily. His People were Up, so it must be Morning. That meant time for Outside and Food, his Favorite Things. 

“Chill out, bud,” Violet muttered to the dog before asking Sherlock, “So what was the trigger? Victor or the paparazzi?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her to Mind Her Own Business, but then remembered that she had just said that sometimes people ask personal questions because they care. Not because they need the information to further their own agendas. “Not sure,” he admitted. “I dreamt about the Fall.”

“Papparazzi,” Violet said immediately. When Sherlock threw a confused looked over his shoulder at her, she said, “The press pushed you into a corner, forced the issue with Moriarty. If the press hadn’t painted you to be the bad guy, Moriarty wouldn’t have had the leverage to make you jump. Plus, Magnussen owned half the media in London. His papers and his tabloids made a lot of money off of you.”

“Inferences,” Sherlock grunted, turning into the kitchen.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I do,” Violet reminded him. “You investigate and draw conclusions based on hard data and scientific methods. I study emotions and behavioral patterns to create a profile in order to determine the motivations behind the actions. You solve the crimes. I figure out why the crook did it in the first place.” She sat down at the kitchen table as Sherlock got the kettle and two mugs out. “And I don’t want tea.”

“Fine,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed a canister that was labeled “Flour” but actually stored dog biscuits. He opened the lid and gave Gladstone three treats. The dog gobbled them happily and then plunked down next to Violet.

“You’re making my dog fat,” Violet complained as Sherlock grabbed a bag of coffee and the filters. He deposited those items in front of her and started his tea preparations.

Now Violet rolled her eyes but she took the hint and spooned coffee into the filter and then got up to put it into the coffeemaker. 

They both sat down at the same time to wait for the coffee to perk and the kettle to boil. “I was too tired to ask when I got home last night,” Violet rested her cheek on her hand. “But did you get anything useful out of Rucastle?”

“For someone who has been labeled a narcissist, he was quite interested in _me_.”

“As if you needed your ego inflated even more.”

“But he didn’t want to hear about any of my cases,” Sherlock said peevishly. He had actually been a bit miffed about that. He had planned on dazzling Rucastle with how cleverly he had solved his cases. And to be perfectly honest, Sherlock could (and would) talk about his cases incessantly if given free rein. “He wasn’t interested in my _Work_ at all. He wanted the tittle-tattle. He wanted to know if there was any truth to the rumors about John and I being in love-”

“Well-”

“There isn’t,” Sherlock snapped at Violet.

Violet only gave him a beatific smile and fluttered her eyelashes. 

Sherlock scowled at her, “And he wanted to know about you. How exactly we met, what we like to do together, dull, predictable. And a bit sad,” Sherlock shook his shaggy black hair ruefully “So blatantly obvious. He was probing for weaknesses, something he could exploit to his advantage. It was painful to watch, actually. It felt like he wasn’t even trying. I was a bit offended by his lack of effort, honestly. And it was quite easy to distract him. All I needed to do was ask him about himself and he became exceedingly happy to discuss his favorite subject.”

“I’m surprised the restaurant had enough room for both of your egos.”

Sherlock ignored her jape. “You and I will go to Rucastle’s house at once. I do not wish to delay this any further. We must investigate. The more and more Rucastle tries to ingratiate himself to me and to attempt to intimidate and control you with his ridiculous schedules for the boy and the subtly sexist clothing he forces you to wear, the more I believe he is hiding something.” 

Amused, Violet grinned, “The Great Misogynist thinks a fashion designer is a sexist.”

“I am not a misogynist,” Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “Another disgusting lie spread by the tabloids. I do not hate women. I hate everyone.”

“My mistake,” Violet feigned remorse.

“If I hated women, I would not ask you to accompany me tonight.”

“Actually, you should take John,” Violet said, seeing a golden opportunity presenting itself. “Mary’s unraveling. I should stay here and keep an eye on her.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “If Mary is unstable, shouldn’t her husband keep an eye on her?”

Violet shook her head. “John is too close to the situation. He’s too emotional. It’d do him good to go with you. It’d get him out of his head for a little bit. And besides,” Violet got up to pour herself a cup of coffee just as the kettle boiled. “It’d do you two both good to work a case together. It’s been too long. You’re not the only one who’s been bored. John’s going to get pissed off if he keeps getting left behind or left in the dark.”

Sherlock mulled her words over as he got up to tend to the whistling kettle. Then he nodded “Very well. I’ll text John. It’ll be fun. He’ll be delighted to join me, I’m sure.”  

_Yeah, nothing says_ Fun _like a little Breaking and Entering…_ Violet shook her head at Sherlock’s idea of a Good Time. But then she dismally thought, _Of course, Mary and I will be doing the same thing tonight…  OMG, FML as the kids these days say..._

As Violet sat down, Sherlock added “And whatever you and Mary are planning on doing this evening, please do not get caught.”

“We won’t if you two won’t,” Violet slouched in her seat a little and blew on her coffee. _Damn_. _Should have known better_. “Tell John to bring his gun and you’ll need to bring your lock picking tools. Every door is locked . I never went downstairs because I never felt safe enough to go down by myself.”

“Practical,” Sherlock nodded his head in approval.

“And you should probably start there even though you think whatever Lady Elise may have hidden in her darkroom is already gone. It makes sense if they are killing those actresses and burning their bodies in there. There would be a sink with running water and a drain in the floor. It would make clean-up easier.”  

“Also, room for an audience,” Sherlock’s face darkened. “After  what you had filmed for me to watch, what you had told me and from what I had observed at the lido, there is something profoundly wrong with Master Edward. They are breeding a psychopath.”

“That’s quite a label to put on a little boy.”

“Since that was the label they attempted to put on me when I was a child, it is not one I use lightly. In order to utilize my incredible and powerful mind to its fullest potential, I learned to organize and compartmentalize information as it comes to me. In order not to let unpleasant information affect me personally, which would interfere  with my deductive reasoning abilities, I do not allow emotions to dictate my reaction when receiving said unpleasant information. Acts of violence are an emotional response and violence is _always_ my last resort.”

Violet nodded. That was true. That fit the profile.

Sherlock only attempted to set the young Earl of Winchester on fire as a _last resort_ to stop his horrific abuse. And Sherlock also only shot and killed Charles Augustus Magnussen as a _last resort_ to stop him from having Mary killed and John imprisoned.

Even last spring, when they were canvassing the neighborhood after John and Mary’s home had been broken into, Sherlock had tried to reason with the men the Rouge had sent to abduct them. But when those men hadn’t listened to reason, well, the results were swift and terrible.

But let the record show, Sherlock had tried to reason with them…

… and Violet, not Sherlock, had been the one who got blood on her hands that day. She had shot and killed the infamous and shadowy Moran when he tried to shoot Sherlock in the back.

“Edward Rucastle on the other hand,” Sherlock continued, “Shows a disturbing lack of emotion for someone so young, particularly empathy for others. Even I was not so cold when I was a child, much to Mycroft’s dismay,” Sherlock sniffed contemptuously. “But children rarely have the armor adults do, even me, when I was a boy. I had to learn to control my emotions, not let my emotions control me. Children though… Their ability to absorb information is so fascinating and their curiosity is never-ending. But their emotions rule them absolutely, because they are the very dictionary definition of “immature.” Whereas as adults can conceal their emotions, even to the point of becoming jaded; children do not have that ability. They cry because they are hurt or they see someone in pain. Edward enjoys _causing_ pain because he sees others causing pain. There is a definite personality disorder that is undermining his reasoning process. If he is not removed from that environment now, in ten years’ time, I could be hunting _him_.”

“He’s six,” Violet nodded, “With therapy, possibly medication, there’s a very good chance he can still grow up to be a relatively normal adult who can form healthy relationships and function in society. But again, we’re wading into that murky territory of nature versus nutur-”

Sherlock’s text alert went off in the other room, the breathy erotic moan of Irene Adler.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE, WILL YOU CHANGE THAT?” Violet howled.

“Nope,” Sherlock got up to retrieve his mobile from the lounge.

“What if that would have gone off last night in the restaurant?” Violet called after him.

“Violet, come here, at once,” he ordered. There was no trace of joking or humor in his voice.

“Now what?” Violet asked as she abandoned her coffee. Gladstone followed.

Sherlock stood at the window, his “Violin Playing Spot.” He held his mobile in one hand and his tea in his other. He tilted his head, indicating Violet should look down.

She complied and saw a slender, pretty girl with long, shiny blonde hair done up in a pony-tail pacing outside of 221B. She wore jogging clothes and well-worn trainers. She twisted her fingers in her hand, clearly dithering.

“She used exercise as a pretense to come here,” Sherlock murmured, sipping his tea.

“Please,” Violet shot Sherlock an irritated look. “I know it’s early, but you can do better than that. _Deduce her_. Why is she here?”

“Clearly she is afraid of being recognized and also being seen here. Hence, she keeps her back to the CCTV cameras Mycroft so lovingly has pointed at 221B Baker Street at all times. Her track suit looks new but that is because she rarely uses it; it is at least two years old. Her trainers are old though, so she is used to being on her feet. They are black, all black, laces and all. Waitress. But she is very pretty. Not because she is vain but because she is used to having her face and body looked at all the time. Actress. Possibly model. She used exercise as a pretense to come here because she is too afraid to go to the police. Indicates she has a secret, a secret she wishes to keep at all costs. However, if she does not seek help and soon, someone close to her will perish. A friend, perhaps? A close friend… who is missing.”

“Or a roommate,” Violet breathed. “Holy shit. Josie Tey. The Payne-Ellis girl’s roommate.”

“Close your dressing gown, put your glasses on and pull your hair back,” Sherlock ordered, turning on his heel and going to the kitchen to make more tea. “And fetch that young lady before she has second thoughts and bolts. We just found the missing piece to the Burned Girls case.”

Violet scooped up her fake eyeglasses she had placed on the table next to Sherlock’s chair and jammed them on her face. She hastily bundled her hair up as she ran out the door. She tied the sash of the blue dressing gown around her slim waist as she hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping on the hem.

“Wait! Please!” Violet Smith called out as she burst out of the street level door.

Josie Tey had just started to walk away and she jumped when she heard Violet calling after her. “I’m… I’m just a bit lost, it’s…” she trailed off. “I’m just out for a run… if you can just tell me where the nearest Tube station is… I’ll be on my way…” 

“Nonsense,” Violet said firmly but kindly. “No one just jogs past this block of flats. The only address more famous than this one is London SW1A 1AA.”

Josie Tey smiled gamely but she continued to back-pedal. “It… was a mistake… it’s early. I should have made an appointment and not dropped by. I’m sorry… I’ll go.”

“It’s alright,” Violet adjusted her glasses. “Please, come in. You look like you’re about to drop and the kettle’s boiled.” When the young lady still looked unsure, Violet added, “We’ve been up for ages. You’re not disturbing us.” 

“Is…” Josie wetted her lips. Then she looked up, tried to see if the Great Consulting Detective was watching from the windows. “Is the doctor here too? Will I be able to talk to him? I…I’d much rather talk to the doctor, please. I can wait if he’s having a lie-in.”

“No,” Violet shook her head. “Dr. Watson lives elsewhere. With his wife.”

“Oh,” Josie started to tremble as the color drained from her face. “But… I was told that Dr. Watson was easier to talk to than… than… _him_.”

“Yes, I know Sherlock is quite intimidating and he can be a bit rude. Just state the facts. Don’t lie or embellish. And I’ll be there as well, so shall we?” But when Josie stayed rooted to the spot, Violet felt her patience slipping a bit. “You would not have come all this way so early in the morning if it wasn’t important. If you’re in trouble, we will help you. I promise.”

Josie finally nodded and Violet led her inside and up the stairs.

Sherlock had pulled the client’s chair out and had gotten dressed, more or less. He had on trousers and a black dress shirt. The shirt wasn’t tucked in or buttoned but he had a vest on underneath it. He was also barefoot plus he still needed to shave. His hair was its usual riot of curls, but only cutting his hair very short would resolve that issue.

He sat in “his” chair, waiting for Violet to bring the latest client in, fingers steepled.

Violet would have loved to put proper clothes on but she didn’t dare leave Sherlock alone with Josie. He was eying her like a cat does an injured baby bunny.

Violet poured Josie a cup of tea. The girl refused sugar, milk and lemon. She took tiny sips and gave Sherlock terrified glances. Her leg jiggled up and down. Her pupils were pinned.

The detective and the agent shared a silent conversation over Josie’s head.

_Traumatized_.

“My name is Josie Tey,” the young woman said as Violet sat down in John’s chair. “I’m twenty-two. I’m an actress, well, trying to be an actress. I moved in with one of my friends from uni-”

“Boring,” Sherlock immediately interrupted.

“Sherlock,” Violet snapped at him. Then, in a gentler voice, she told the girl “Josie, if you’re going to tell us what I think you are then we don’t have time for superfluous details. What happened and what do you need us to do?”

Josie’s hands started shaking, the tea cup rattled lightly in the saucer. “It’s my fault,” she whispered, tearing up. “My roommate’s missing and I think she’s been taken by the same bitch who tried to snatch me two weeks ago.” 

Sherlock and Violet shared another brief glance.

_Bitch_?

_A woman_?

Violet recognized the gleam in his eerie eyes. He felt interested now, invested.

As Sherlock studied Josie over his fingertips, Violet asked “Did you go to the police?”

“No!” Josie shook her head. “I couldn’t. I mean, I didn’t, I was too embarrassed… you see…” she folded her lips together. “I’m no prozzie,” she burst out. “Some of the other girls are whores, yeah, I mean literal whores. On their own time but not me. I followed the rules.”

“Rules?” Violet tilted her head.

“I didn’t tell the police because I worked for an escort service,” Josie whispered. “They came to my flat after Evie’s mum and dad reported her missing. I just told them I hadn’t seen her. But I didn’t tell them about Westaways. My agent hooked me up with them when I lost my waitressing job and I wasn’t getting many acting jobs. The money was good but after what happened… I quit. And I told Evie not to apply, but she had just gotten sacked. She said that the café went under but she was really a shit waitress so I wouldn’t be surprised if she had been let go.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock said testily. “Circling back to your traumatic near-abduction… how did you escape?”

“She offered me a drink. I said I wasn’t thirsty. Then she just went… barking mad. Just started slapping me and grabbing me by the wrist, trying to pin me down… I saw she had one of those zip-tie thingamajigs. I freaked out and opened the car door. It wasn’t locked. We were at a red light and the car door wasn’t locked,” Josie started shaking head to foot now, reliving the entire experience. “The door wasn’t locked and I got out and she tried to pull me back inside so I started screaming bloody murder. The light turned green and she pushed me out. I dunno why, but I got away... but I dunno _why_ …” The tea cup clattered loudly against the saucer as Josie’s entire body shook.

Recognizing survivor’s guilt, Violet got up and knelt in front of Josie. Sherlock snorted in irritated impatience. She shot Sherlock a disapproving look over her shoulder then took the tea cup away from Josie before she dropped it. “Josie, breathe. You’re safe here. If your flat-mate was taken by the same person or people, you won’t help her if you panic.”  

“I should have gone to the police, but I was embarrassed. I would have had to tell them I worked for an escort service. And I bloody well told Evie not to apply there, that it wasn’t safe… not with…” she swallowed hard. “With… the Burned Girls happening. But then she said she got a new job at a coffee shop and she gave me money to cover her half of the bills. So I didn’t think about it until she didn’t come home Thursday night. Said she had rehearsal. She’s the understudy for Ophelia, you see. She’s so bleeding proud of that, you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave Josie a disparaging glare and an enormous frown.

“Josie…” Violet said gently. “It’s critical you get to the point now.”

“Right, sorry,” the girl muttered, utterly flustered. “Err, yeah when she didn’t come home, I started calling around. There was no rehearsal that night,” she said in a low voice . “So I rang her parents. Thought maybe she had dinner with them and just spent the night there. She did that sometimes. But she wasn’t there. So her mum and dad called the police. I didn’t know what to do,” Josie shook her head, shrinking into her chair. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should tell the cops what happened to me, but it was two weeks ago and I didn’t know if The Met would take me seriously,” she whimpered.

“Plus you are a selfish little cow who didn’t want your Mummy and Daddy to find out you had worked at an escort service to make ends meet,” Sherlock pointed out. “As it would only give them more ammunition in their battle to convince you that you’re not a very good actress and you won’t be able to make a living at it.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

“No,” Josie said in a tiny voice. “He’s right. I’m a coward. And Evie might get killed because of it. That’s what Anya told me last night when she rang me.”

“Anya?” Violet furrowed her brow, shook her head. “Who’s Anya?”

“I dunno her last name. She heard me screaming that night. She ran to help me. She helped me up off the pavement and took me inside the Red Lion. Bought me a drink, wrapped my hands. They got all scraped up when I was pushed out of the car.

_Anya… Red Lion… two weeks ago…_

_Anya is a Russian name… a nickname usually…_

Faint alarm bells went off in Violet’s head. “What did she look like? Anya?”

“Uh… older lady. Tall… err, tall-ish. Blonde. Looked dead scary but was really sweet.”

Both Sherlock and Violet’s eyes widened.

_Oh Mary, honestly…_ Sherlock thought wearily. _When will the lies cease?_

Meanwhile Violet’s thoughts were a bit less elegant. _I’m going to fucking kill her… assuming she doesn’t get_ me _killed first_ …. _God, John you have horrible taste in women. If there was ever a time to switch teams, no time like now_ … she flicked her eyes at Sherlock quickly before reverting all of her attention back to Josie, who was still talking:

“She said you saved her life once, Mr. Holmes. She said she’d pay. For you to find who tried to take me… but when she rang me last night, she told me I needed to go to you at once and tell you to go find Evie. She seemed convinced that those bastards have her.” Her lower lip trembled. “I am a coward and it’s my fault, I should have gone to the cops that night but I was embarrassed…”

“Your tears will not help me solve this case,” Sherlock said coolly. “Your sentiment will only impede me. I need you to think. Think back and think hard. Remember everything you can about the woman who tried to abduct you.”

“OK, sorry,” Josie rubbed her eyes like a chastised child. “Um… OK, well… it was dark. In the back of the car, so I didn’t get a good look at her face.”

“Did she sound old or young?”

“Oh, old. Loads older than you even…err, no offense, Mr. Holmes.”

“None taken, actually that’s quite helpful. Did she sound old as in fifty to sixty years old or ancient like seventy-five to ninety?”

“Oh, the first, she sounded older than my mum but not as old as my gran. But,” Josie wrinkled her nose in disgust. “She wore the same nasty perfume as my gran.”

_Perfume?_

Alarm bells weren’t just ringing in Violet’s head now. More like a tornado siren wailing its warning seconds before the storm hit. “Sherlock, darling, why don’t you fetch your-”

“Perfume index, yes, of course,” Sherlock leapt out of his chair and practically skipped down the hallway to his bedroom.

Violet smiled up at Josie. “You are doing really well.”

“I’m blubbering like a baby.”

“He has that effect on most people,” Violet winked at her and stood up. “Would you like another cuppa? Or something to eat? You must be famished.”

“I haven’t had much of an appetite since Evie… you know…”

“Of course,” Violet demurred as she sat back down in John’s chair again.

Sherlock came back with a cardboard box labeled “Perfume Index”. He sat down on the floor near Josie and crossed his legs. “Come here,” he told her.

Josie gave Violet a bewildered look and Violet smiled encouragingly. So Josie slid off the chair and sat on the floor with Sherlock.

Sherlock held up a small vial containing a golden liquid. “Are you absolutely certain you would be able to identify the perfume if you smelled it again?”

“Oh God yeah. It was horrible.”

“Very well,” He uncapped the vial. “Miss Smith, please be so kind as to bring the tin of coffee in here. Miss Tey will lose her ability to distinguish scents after two or three samples. Smelling coffee will cleanse her palate, so to speak.” As Violet got up to get the coffee, Sherlock looked at the young, frightened woman sitting in front of him. “Shall we begin?”

“Ready,” Josie whispered.

Sherlock held the vial out to her. “Sample One.”

She inhaled then shook her head. “That’s nasty but that’s not what she was wearing.”

Sherlock made a mental note _Not Elizabeth Arden’s_ Sunflowers.

Poor Josie had to endure smelling ten different perfumes until she finally declared “That’s it. That’s what she was wearing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Could you swear under oath in front of a jury that your would-be abductor wore this perfume?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Miss Tey. It would be redundant to say we will take your case as we are already investigating this case for NSY but your information has been most useful.”

“Will you be able to find Evie then?”

“Oh yes.”

“Alive?”

“Most likely.”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _Sherlock!_ ” Violet snapped at him again.

“What?” he grizzled.

“Josie, let me call you a cab,” Violet said as she scowled at Sherlock. “I strongly recommend you stay with your parents until we apprehend the monsters who took your friend, OK?”

“Yeah, OK,” Josie nodded. “Thank you… no matter…” she took a quavering breath. “No matter what happens, just… you know… thank you.”

“Mm,” Sherlock studied the vial of clear liquid intently, ignoring Josie.

He stayed silent until Miss Tey had been bundled safely inside  a black cab and dispatched to her parents’ home. When Violet returned inside, Sherlock sprung to his feet and tossed the vial at Violet. “Smell it,” he told her.

Violet uncapped the vial, sniffed. Her nose wrinkled in repulsion.

“ _White Diamonds_ ,” Sherlock said as he reached for his mobile to text John:

Breaking into Rucastle’s tonight.   
Could be dangerous – SH

John immediately texted back, which of course, set off the Sexy Moan Text Alert. As Violet picked up tea cups and grumbled obscenities under her breath, Sherlock read John’s reply:

If you get shot again,   
I’m leaving you to bleed out – JW

Sherlock grinned and texted back:

That is why I insist Mary stay home – SH

John’s reply was even more swift than before.

NOT FUNNY SHERLOCK – SH

“When you’re finished flirting with your boyfriend,” Violet Hunter sniped. “We need to talk. We need to tell Lestrade about this, especially if this DI Mason is just as incompetent as you say he is. Plus Mrs. Watson is starting to _really_ piss me off.” She flounced off towards the kitchen, carrying the tea service Sherlock had brought out.

“I wasn’t _flirting_.”

 “Uh-huh.”

“ _I wasn’t flirting_.”

 “BULLSHIT,” Violet yelled from the kitchen.

“Not flirting,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, determined to have the final word.

But Violet came back out of the kitchen, any trace of good-humor wiped away from her face. “We’ll have to table that discussion about Mary,” she muttered, holding her own mobile out for Sherlock to see. “I’ve been summoned to Rucastle’s. He wants me to help get the kid packed up for The Copper Beaches.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock purred. “Tell him you’ll be there within the hour.”

“You’re tagging along, aren’t you?”

“Why do you insist on asking such pointless questions?”

“No idea,” Violet sighed, texting Rucastle back.

She had gotten so wrapped up with interviewing Josie Tey, she’d clean forgotten to ask Sherlock who had texted _him_ in the first place.

While Violet texted Rucastle, Sherlock checked his mobile again:

What are you doing Sunday? - VT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah, apologies for the unexpected mini-Hiatus. Thank you all for worrying about me though. That gave me warm fuzzies :^)


	18. Tartarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Insipid man,” Sherlock had muttered as they waited outside for the cab he had called. “I cannot wait until I can finally reveal to him just how utterly uninteresting he really is. While you got to go have all the fun, I had to listen to the differences between Fashion Week in Paris and Fashion Week in Milan.”
> 
> “ALL THE FUN?” Violet had squawked at him once they were safely ensconced in the cab..." 
> 
> Rucastle's an ass. Violet's a snoop. Lestrade's a good husband. John's a BAMF. Mary's MIA. 
> 
> And Sherlock is Sherlock. :^)
> 
> ALSO - Trigger warning for the end of the chapter... :^(

Chapter Eighteen: Tartarus

8 August 2015  
Jepthro Rucastle’s Residence  
Saturday morning  
10:59 AM

“He’s in a filthy temper,” Toller solemnly informed Sherlock and Violet when he opened the door for them. The man wore his usual impeccable grey suit and a purple tie tied in a Windsor knot. The purple handkerchief matched his tie perfectly.

“Oh?” Violet Smith strove for polite puzzlement.

“Probably not the best idea for you to have brought your man along,” Toller droned .

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said breezily, pushing past the dour PA. “He’ll be overjoyed to see me.”

“He’s in his study,” Toller grizzled after Sherlock. “Allow me to lead you.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said as he swung the long, brown paper bag  he carried with him.

Instead of turning left to go to “the parlor”, they turned right and Toller led them to a room that could have been a handsome library… if there had been any books on the shelves.

Most of the books were now on the floor, at least the ones Toller could reach. The curtains had been pulled from the rods. Anything that wasn’t nailed down had been flung across the room. Pillows, sofa cushions, desk lamps, pens, pencils, papers, vases, flowers, fussy little knickknacks, tea cups and saucers lay scattered and broken along the floor.

In the middle of the room stood Rucastle, wearing a pea-green silk kimono that had intricate floral designs stitched into the cloth with bright fuchsia and golden threads. He had his hands on his massive hips and he huffed and puffed. His bloodshot eyes brimmed with angry tears. His orange hair stuck up in tufts, as if he had been pulling it. Two pink blossoms bloomed in his cheeks. He whirled around when Toller cleared his throat, discreetly letting him know there were guests in the house.

Rucastle reminded Violet of a mean old rodeo bull that delighted in throwing the foolish cowboys off his back. Anything could set him off.

“You’re not in uniform!” he screamed at Violet when he turned and saw her enter the room.

Violet froze. She wasn’t afraid of him per se. But studying his bright pink face and how his piggy eyes locked on her, she didn’t exactly feel comfortable around him either.

Sherlock put his hand on Violet’s shoulder and immediately stood by her side, blocking Toller. “Everything alright, Jeff?” he asked, his voice actually sounding concerned.

Violet shot Sherlock a sideways glance, arching an eyebrow over her fake spectacles.

 _Jeff? REALLY?_ She silently asked the detective.

But Rucastle must have told Sherlock to call him that because he mellowed slightly. “Shers, hey. Apologies… I didn’t… ARGGHHH!!!!” he ran his fat sausage fingers through his hair. “K-Mart backed out of the deal!” he wailed, like a little boy who had just been told Christmas was cancelled. “Those Yankee cocksuckers bloody reneged  on my clothing line!”

“Oh dear,” Sherlock said mildly. “Perhaps this will help?” He held up the bag.

Rucastle brightened, seeing the bag clearly held some sort of alcohol. “Well, as they say,” he rubbed his hands together. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, eh?”

“Bangkok, Thailand, actually,” Sherlock pulled the bottle out of the brown sack. “Although I must say, I really hope you don’t expect Miss Smith to wear her nanny uniform at the Copper Beaches. She’ll stick out like a sore thumb. The paps will descend upon us like flies. I’m hoping for a bit of peace and quiet. Especially after last night’s… unpleasantness.”

“Oh,” Rucastle eyed Violet up and down. She felt like livestock at one of the sales-barns in the small rural town she and her brother had been sent to after their father had been killed. A prize mare meant for breeding. Or a cow destined for the slaughterhouse.

 _When you’re arrested I hope the cop puts the handcuffs on your wrists so tight you lose circulation in your hands and your fingers fall off,_ Violet thought sweetly as she stood there in a perfectly nice t-shirt, a long peasant style skirt, and sandals. Her hair was neatly plaited into a long braid that trailed down her back. 

“Yes, I see your point. Clothes must be functional as well as fashionable,” he muttered as Sherlock found two tumblers Rucastle hadn’t smashed during his tantrum. “And I did disturb your Saturday,” he admitted reluctantly, as if it was just dawning on him how inconsiderately he was behaving. “Of course, you would be in your civilian clothes instead of uniform.”

Sherlock, his back to Rucastle, rolled his eyes as he poured drinks.

He made sure he had a happy smile plastered to his face when he turned to give Rucastle his drink, however.

Toller, who once again had made himself invisible, coughed tactfully. “I’m off to the market then, sir. And then to the offices to pick up the renderings you were working on as well as to, ah, double-check the security systems since we’ll be out of town for three weeks now.”

“Yes, yes, go…” Rucastle waved Toller off as he continued to scrutinize Violet’s outfit. “Not as aesthetically appealing as the uniforms that I personally designed for you, but… this will do, I suppose. It’s not completely unattractive.”

Violet fought to keep her face neutral. She doubted a ridiculously tight skirt that only served to show the contours of her backside would not be considered part of a “uniform.”  Again she felt irritation rippling through her as Rucastle evaluated her outfit. As if she were  only a living mannequin who existed to showcase his clothes.

She was glad she threw his slutty dress in the rubbish bin last night. 

Meanwhile, the Great Consulting Detective wore one of his usual black suits with his black dress shirt, buttoned up and tucked in properly now. He looked like a priest. Or a vampire… despite spending most of the day at the Serpentine Lido, his face was still as white and smooth as porcelain. _He must have slathered on the sunscreen_ , Violet thought, amused.

“I sent my uniforms to the dry-cleaners,” Violet Smith concealed Violet Hunter’s annoyance at Rucastle’s chauvinism. She smiled apologetically as Sherlock joined her again at her side. “I thought you needed me here as soon as possible, and Sherlock,” Violet, like a besotted school-girl, looped her arm through Sherlock’s and beamed at him, “Had _such_ a wonderful time last night, he couldn’t resist tagging along.”  

Now Rucastle glowed with pleasure and rubbed his hands together. “Really? I say, last night was… well other than that awkwardness with Old What’s-Her-Name, yes, last night was most delightful. Oh, I say, how did things turn out with your brother?”

Violet was ready for this. She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “He got pissed at a pub, got mouthy with the barkeep and got himself tossed in gaol. He’s with his wife now, trying to make it up to her for drinking again. It’ll be the same old story. He’ll start some Twelve Step program, stick to it for a few months and then fall off the wagon once more.”

Sherlock, recognizing his cue, put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. He dropped a kiss on top of her head.

Violet jumped a bit and hoped Rucastle hadn’t noticed.

They had discussed the lie in great detail on the cab ride to Belgravia, including the choreography.

But Sherlock must have felt like improvising because they hadn’t discussed the kiss.  

“Sounds like he’s a Grade-A pain in the arse,” Rucastle made a moue of sympathy.

She shrugged. “Can’t choose your family, I’m afraid. But, what exactly do you need my help with? You said you needed assistance with the packing for Eddie?”

“Oh yes,” Rucastle rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Toller forgot to pick up Tristan’s medicine from the chemist, which set her back on her schedule. She won’t have time to pack for Tristan and Edward now. Toller needs to pack for me and, well, it’s just dreadfully inconvenient. She left a list for you in the nursery and she was kind enough to take Edward along with her. Kept him out of everyone’s hair, he’s such an inquisitive tyke,” Rucastle chortled to himself.

“Indeed,” Sherlock drawled, a bit of his façade slipping. He covered the slip by taking a sip of his drink, grimacing slightly at the taste.

He really didn’t care for the taste of most alcohol. And he hated how muddled he felt when he started to get drunk. If he had to alter his mental state, he’d much rather use cocaine or morphine… or heroin… _Oh, the good drugs…_

Spying the ornate chessboard that had survived obliteration, he asked Rucastle, “Do you play?”

“Oh yes,” Rucastle lit up. “Fancy a game?”

“Delighted,” Sherlock said while thinking _Dull. Checkmate in four moves._  

 “You two have fun,” Violet smiled indulgently. “Shan’t be too long, darling,” she pecked Sherlock on the cheek as he sat down in front of the board.

Sherlock gave her a quick look. That kiss hadn’t been rehearsed either. But he smiled at her, hiding his surprise.

 _Brain is turning into mush, Holmes_ , he scolded himself, _with all this kissing nonsense_.

He looked at his opponent. An overweight, hedonistic, sexist twat… yes, he might be a most devious kidnapper and murderer but still…

Boring.

 _I miss Moriarty_ , he sighed to himself as he used the Stonewall Attack as his opening chess move. _How nice it will be to match wits against a proper villain again…_

Meanwhile, Violet hurried out of the demolished library, planning on rushing up to the nursery to pack the little brat’s clothes and toys up as quickly as possible so she could do a quick search of the house. But as she reached the stairs, Tristan Holloway was drifting down, looking lost as usual. She wore a long silk nightie. It looked clean for once. But her feet were bare and dirty. Her toe nail polish was chipped. Her hair bland and limp.

“Mrs. Rucastle?” Violet asked as the unkempt woman drifted past her. “Wait, where are you going? Are you alright?”

She gave Violet a bland smile. “He used to call me Thalia,” she said dreamily “When I was one of his Muses. But he stopped. Calling me that. After Eddie was born. And when I went down… down… down…” she scratched her head, confused. She had clearly lost her train of thought. “Hello. Who are you?” she smiled as she lifted a strap back onto her shoulder.

“I’m Violet,” Violet said patiently, noticing the track marks in the woman’s elbows. _Jesus, we have to call the cops_ , she thought, feeling over her head. “Mrs. Rucastle, down where?”  

“Down there,” she pointed to the floor. “Tartarus…. It’s a dark old room, Tartarus.”

Dark old room… _darkroom_.

Lady Elise’s old darkroom.

 _OhmygodEviecouldbe_ here _JesusChrist_ the thought flew through Violet’s head. _Sherlock keep that fat bastard busy_. She grabbed Tristan by the upper arm gently but firmly. “Show me,” she demanded in a whisper.

She felt confident going downstairs now.

Sherlock was keeping Hades busy.

And Violet had a Glock 42 in a holster strapped to her upper thigh, hidden by her peasant skirts.

**

8 August 2015  
Westaways Cortege  
Saturday  
11:45 AM

“I really do not appreciate you barging into my office,” Missy Stroper snapped.

John forced himself to count to ten. Before he and Violet had left for Rucastle’s House of Horrors, Sherlock had texted John the new information Josie Tey had provided. John had gulped down his coffee, burned his tongue and scrawled a note for the sleeping Mary (who was Missing In Action again the previous  night…) Then he called for a cab and was en route to the West End fifteen minutes later. He had tried to ring Westaways on the ride there, but hadn’t had much luck. He hoped a face-to-face meeting would be more productive.

“Like I said on the telephone, Ms. Stroper, I’m not calling to make a date with one of your girls-”

“You couldn’t afford them anyway,” she sneered, looking at his scuffed shoes, well-worn jeans and short-sleeved button-down shirt that could have been purchased in any retail chain store.

“And I’m not so pathetic that I need to buy affection,” John riposted . He held his hands up, pen in one hand, his pocket notebook in the other. “Look, I’m a private investigator working in tandem with The Met and I’m simply following up on a lead.”

John had learned when to broadcast the fact he was partners with The Great Consulting Detective and when to tap-dance around that fact. This woman looked like she would not be the type who would be impressed with John working with the one-and-only Sherlock Holmes.

“You bleeding coppers,” she growled as leaned back in her squeaky chair. “Don’t you have better things to do than to bother me? This is not a _brothel_.”  

John took a quick, cursory look around the cramped office. No, this definitely did not look like a brothel or whorehouse at all. Westaways looked more like the stereotypical gum-shoe detective’s office. Probably what people thought 221B must look like.      

“I really don’t care what this place is or what you do to earn a living,” John strove for patience, as he poised his pen over the paper. “This has nothing to do with prostitution. I have received information that one of the girls employed here is missing, possibly abducted.”

“What?”

“And that her abduction could possibly be tied to the deaths of three other young women. I need to see if those girls worked here as well.” 

Missy’s face became concerned instead of defensive. “Missing? But… no, that’s not possible. We have safety procedures in place. The girls’ safety is our number one priority.”

“Does the name Evie Payne-Ellis ring any bells?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Most of the girls that work here are starving actresses or models looking to  supplement their incomes between their acting jobs. Actually this business pays them better than any modeling gig or acting job they could get.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, some girls use made-up names because they’re embarrassed and they use made-up names so nobody finds out they’re working here, which is ridiculous because this isn’t a ruddy whorehouse. But most of them just use their stage names when they apply. Again, idiotic, because we provide them with new stage names.”

“I still don’t follow… stage names?”

Missy gave him a disparaging look. “Stage names. What sounds sexier? Norma Jean Mortensen or Marilyn Monroe? Marion Morrison or John Wayne? At any rate, once they’re hired, we give them new stage names to be used strictly here. To make them sound exotic to the customers. It’s partially a marketing ploy and partially to protect the girls’ real identities.”

“So, you don’t know the real names of the girls who work here,” John said wearily as he scratched down notes. “How do you do payroll? If this is indeed a legitimate business, then HM Revenue surely wants their cut.”

“That’s all handled by a third-party accounting agency. Even though we use pseudonyms here, the girls are assigned an employee identification number. After a girl finishes a job and collects the cheque, yes, a _cheque_. An actual old-fashioned paper cheque that those old duffers have to fill out and sign so there is a paper trail on both ends of the transaction. We don’t deal with cash,” she sneered at John. “Anyway, she completes her time card that only has her E.I number on it. She puts the cheque and time card in the night drop box,” she pointed to a sad plastic basket underneath the mail slot in the office door. John had nearly tripped over it when he barged into her office. “I deposit the cheques and enter the hours into the computer under that particular E.I. number. Then when it’s time to submit payroll, I forward that all to the accounting agency electronically. The girls either get cheques or direct-deposit. Taxes are also properly withheld,” she smiled smugly at John. “So yes, the Crown gets Her cut of our revenue.”

“Sounds like a huge stack of bumf to me,” John looked up from his notebook, “Must be a pain in the arse, dealing with specialized numbers instead of having real names on file. And dealing with paper cheques. I can’t remember the last time I actually wrote out a cheque.”

“A few years ago, before I took over management, a nutter became obsessed with one of the girls. He burgled the old office, when Westaways was still in Soho. He nicked everything that contained any sort of information about our girls. He found her and well… it could have ended much worse, I suppose.” She shrugged. “We don’t have any personal information in the office. Not on the computer or in the files.” She pointed to a pair of very sad, metal filing cabinets.

“What’s in there?” John tucked his pen and notebook away.

“C.V.’s and headshots.”

“So, you do know what the girls look like?” He reached for his mobile. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m the one who designs and updates the website.”

John thumbed in his password then opened the camera roll app on his smartphone. ”Would you recognize this girl?” He handed his mobile to Missy.

She gasped and nearly dropped the mobile. “That’s… that’s Sapphire.”

When Missy had hung up on him earlier, John had pulled up Evie Payne-Ellis’ Facebook page and saved her profile picture to a special album he had created for The Burned Girls case.

“That’s Evie Payne-Ellis,” John told her coolly. “She’s twenty-three. She’s been missing since Thursday night. Start scrolling through the pictures, tell me who you see.”

Her lips trembling, she did as John bid her. “That’s GiGi,” she whispered. “She quit.”

“Her name was Alana Grant. She was found dead in front of a theatre in the West End with all her hair and flesh burnt off. Go on.”

Missy blinked her eyes rapidly now. “Heidi,” she whispered.

John shook his head. “Martine Hallard. Dead. Burnt to a crisp. Body was found in front of a West End theatre as well. There’s two more.”

“I can’t…”

“You must. Or talk to The Met. They might assume you’re an accomplice,” John used his ‘Captain Watson’ voice now. He stuffed his pen and notebook in his back pocket.

He wasn’t Sherlock but he knew a rat when he smelt one.

“Jasmine,” tears rolled down her plump cheeks now.

“Antonia Pandy. Her friends called her Toni. Did you know she was only nineteen? She was found dead in a skip. The sick bastard burned her skin and hair off as wel-”

“Stop,” Missy wept.

“One more, Ms. Stroper,” John put his hands behind his back, his feet splayed apart, standing At Ease. He might as well have put his old military uniform back on. 

Missy fumbled with his mobile but managed to swipe the screen one more time. She cried out, “Destiny!”

“Josie Tey. Someone tried to abduct her when she was working for _you_. And you didn’t think to call the police?”

“It’s up to the girl to prosecute,” Missy whispered, “Procedure. But that weird old lady who tried to snatch Dest- I, I mean Josie, she was put on the Black List.  If she were to ever call us again, we would refuse her business. That’s another reason why we still deal with paper cheques. We have names and addresses.”

“Three girls dead and you didn’t think to call the police,” John shook his head in disgust.

“I didn’t know those dead girls were _our_ girls!” Missy burst out. “We have safety procedures in place! GiGi, Heidi, Jasmine… they ALL called in after their jobs were done. They all told me they were OK. The girls have to call me after every job is done. If they had been in trouble, there’s a code word they give me to let me know they need me to call the cops or come get them. I ask them “How are things?” If they tell me they’re “Brilliant”, I know all’s well. But if they are in trouble, they’d say “Fantastic.” Besides, all three of those girls _quit_ ,” Missy added defensively. “Turn-over’s a real problem here. No one gives a proper two-week notice anymore.”

“Can’t imagine why, sounds like a fun job. Young girls paid to have dirty old men undressing with their eyes while worrying whether or not a berk’s going to snatch ‘em and burn ‘em up.” 

“It’s my job to protect those girls!” Missy yelled at John, slamming his mobile down on her deck. John winced, afraid the screen had cracked.

He reached over and retrieved his mobile. Fortunately it was still in one piece. “You failed,” he informed the older woman in a hushed voice. “Those girls were _actresses_. Ever cross your tiny mind they had been coerced to call in? Make you believe they were OK? And then forced to quit? How did they quit? Email? Text? Did you actually ever hear their voices?”

“They quit via text,” Missy whispered.  Her face turned to the same color as cottage cheese. “I do have their mobile numbers so I can call them if I have an opening I need to fill… and they have my work mobile so they can call if they’re in trouble.”

“The kidnapper holds the girls for a month then he kills them and burns their skin to a crisp. Their parents can’t even recognize their bodies. And all those dead girls had worked _here_ ,” John stabbed the desk with his finger. “Now Evie Payne-Ellis has gone missing. No one has seen her since last Thursday. Tell me, Ms. Stroper, did Sapphire have a date Thursday night?”

All the color drained from Missy’s face. “Oh God…”

“Yeah,” John pocketed his mobile and drew out his pen and paper again. “Exactly. That weird old lady, I want all the information you have on her. Now. I also need the name and contact information of the third-party accounting firm who handles payroll. And the name and contact information of the people who own this Not-A-Brothel.” He put the pen and paper on Missy’s desk and slid them both to her.

Missy snuffled and reached for a tissue from the box on her desk, “I really did try to protect the girls,” she sobbed before blowing her nose.

John felt his heart soften. She didn’t look like a cut-throat businesswoman or madam of a bordello either. She looked like someone’s granny, for God’s sake…

Then John felt his heart twist sharply.

All the girls working here, all those girls who had been killed or gone missing had fathers out there… fathers who wondered where their little girls were. Evie’s own father probably was out of his mind with worry, scared witless. Fearing the worst, desperate to do _something_ , anything to find his child...

And then there were the other fathers who were burying their daughters.

John found himself only sympathizing with those broken-hearted men.

“Then let’s get to work and find Evie before it’s too late,” John made himself comfortable in the chair across from Missy’s desk.

“I’ll send you the information when I get it,” Missy turned to her computer.

“Oh, I’ll wait,” John said coldly. “I don’t have anywhere better to be today.”   

He took out his mobile again and sent a group text to Sherlock, Lestrade and Alex MacDonald:

All Burned Girls & EPE worked for Westaways,  
an escort service in the West End – JW

He didn’t bother texting Mary.

**

8 August 2015  
The Lestrades’ Residence  
Saturday  
12: 00 PM

The newlyweds had been home for nearly a half hour. After Toby’s gruesome and untimely demise, Molly and Greg had stayed with Greg’s shorter, squatter, younger brother Hugh. At the wedding dance, Hugh had become smitten with one Molly’s old friends from her hometown (not the highly unpleasant Natalie.) Molly’s friend and Hugh hit it off instantly and a new romance blossomed immediately.

“Stay as long as you like,” Hugh had told his brother and new sister-in-law. “I told Emily what happened and she’s absolutely appalled. She said it’s no problem for me to crash at her place and you two can stay here as long as you please.”

Both Greg and Molly had smiled appreciatively at the well-meaning Hugh, but Hugh’s flat was smaller than a hamster cage. The place was meant to be a _pied-à-terre,_ not a permanent residence. There wasn’t even a proper bedroom. The bed, the chest of drawers, the sofa, the television, the computer desk, the kitchen table, the refrigerator, the oven and microwave were crammed into all in one square room. There wasn’t even a wardrobe, most of his clothes hung on a giant clothes rack at the end of the bed.

Molly had quipped that with her great big belly she doubted she could fit in the tiny room designated for the shower and loo. One could hardly call it a _bathroom_.

After three nights in the cramped space, Greg and Molly decided it was time to go.

The newly besotted Hugh-and-Emily treated them to brunch that morning. They really should have been home ages ago, but both Greg and Molly had found themselves stalling, ordering just one more cup of tea. Hugh-and-Emily had egged them on, especially Emily… _oh go on Molls, have another pastry, what’s the fun of being preggers if you can’t eat whatever you want?_

Everyone knew that while Greg and Molly didn’t want to stay in Hugh’s postage-stamp sized flat any longer, they didn’t want to go back to their flat either.

Greg and Molly both noticed that the police tape had been taken down. Probably by Sergeant Alex MacDonald once she confirmed there was no need for it any longer. Once the crime scene had been cleared, Greg hired the cleaning service John had recommended.

“They’re fantastic,” John had told him. “Bit dear, but worth every penny. They got every speck of fingerprint dust out of our place when that home invasion happened last spring.”

The flat smelled like lemons and soap. Even the carpet looked a bit whiter. 

“They did a nice job, the cleaning service,” Molly said in a soft voice as she hung her handbag up on the peg by the door.

“Yeah,” Greg tried to sound positive as he tossed the overnight bags on the floor next to the sofa. “It was due for a good scrubbing anyway. We were already talking about finding a bigger place anyway, so this… the cleaning was good. We should think about maybe hiring some painters? The walls could do with some touching up and I just don’t have the time, hey just leave those,” Greg stopped Molly as she started to bend down to pick up the bags he put on the floor.  He kissed her forehead. “The unpacking can wait. I’ll do it later, just… come sit with me for a bit, OK?” He rubbed her upper arms, his soft brown eyes filled with concern for his wife.

“In a moment,” Molly said, her voice still subdued. “Something I need to do first.”

Greg sunk down on his sofa and turned the telly on. There was a rugby game playing. Excellent. A welcome distraction. Before he could get invested in the game however, he felt his mobile vibrate. He dug it out of his pocket and read John’s short message.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. Technically this wasn’t his case, it was DI Mason’s. However, Alex was “on-loan” to Whitey and he had every confidence that Alex had caught the ball John threw and ran with it. Knowing her, she probably was ringing Mason right now.

Not enough evidence for an arrest, unfortunately. Not yet anyway. But if the supposedly reformed arsonist Toller was indeed involved in any way, if perhaps he was a silent partner in the third-party accounting company or actually owned part or all of Westaways, then they could haul him in for questioning, possibly even arrest him. And if he’s arrested then the police wouldn’t need a warrant from a magistrate. With a suspect in custody, they could search not just Westaways, but the Tollers’ residence, the Rucastles’ residence and Rucastles’ offices.

“Nice,” Greg nodded approvingly as he texted “Good work” back to John.

John Watson really would have made an excellent cop. A shame he didn’t consider that when he recovered from his military duty in Afghanistan.

And a pity Sherlock got a hold of him first.

_Sherlock…_

_Goddamn him…_

Greg threw his arm over his eyes. Wondered if it was too early for a pint.

He moved when he heard plastic rustling. He lowered his arm when he saw Molly waddling out of the kitchen, with a bucket filled with cleaning supplies and a large rubbish liner.

“Molly, what are you doing?”

“Just,” she lifted the bucket up a bit. “Going to tidy up the nursery, that’s all.”

“Honey,” Greg said helplessly. “The cleaners already took care of that.”

“It just still feels like _he’s_ here,” Molly said darkly. “Moriarty, I mean.”

Greg felt his skin prickle. “But he’s not, Molly. Everything’s been cleaned up. A task force from NSY came over and did a sweep. There’re no hidden cameras or listening devices. The locks have been changed and a new security code has been put into the keypad on the security door. He’s not here and he’s not getting back in while we’re still here, which won’t be for long.”

“Well,” her voice started to shake. “I want to at least throw the linens and blankets out…”

“Molly…”

“We’ll have to get a new mattress too for the crib. It was soaked… completely soaked with… with… b-b-blood and I don’t want Henry to sleep on that bedding and mattress, no matter how clean it might look now.”

“Sweetheart,” Greg said helplessly.

“Oh, and that little plush toy your mum got us. The teddy bear, it was white so I d-d-don’t think any cleaning crew could get the blood off it…” Molly dropped the liner and bucket. They fell to the floor with a clatter and Molly buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Greg had gotten off the sofa when Molly dropped the cleaning supplies and now folded her in his arms. He dropped a kiss on top of her head as he cuddled her. “Hell of a way to start a marriage,” he joked softly, whispering into her hair.

Molly snuffled, tried to laugh. “Yeah. Didn’t think the ‘For worse’ stuff would come right away.”

“I’m not going to let that bastard near you,” Greg promised her. “Or our son, OK?”

“OK.”

“I’m sorry about the nursery, but they’re just things, right? We can replace _things_.”

“I know… but… I know I sound stupid, but Toby was _old_. And he was such a nice kitty, he didn’t hurt anyone. He just liked to sleep and eat. He didn’t deserve _that_.”

“Not stupid. It was horrible. And I don’t trust people who aren’t attached to their pets. My bitch-of-an-ex kept my dog after we split up.” That still rankled.

“Maybe he’ll bite her.”

“Oh that would be wonderful if he did,” Greg sighed as he led Molly back to the sofa. They sank down on the sofa together. Greg turned the telly back off and Molly curled up in the crook of his arm, her arms protectively hugging her belly.

Greg put his hand over hers. “So… Henry then?”

“Do you like it?” she asked anxiously, meanwhile remembering a conversation from a few months ago… last spring, when the penny dropped…

_And for pity’s sake, give the poor tyke a decent, normal name. Please, I beg you…_

“I’ve been trying it out in my head for a while now,” she explained. “I never said it out loud yet.”

“Henry,” Greg said slowly, trying it out. Then he smiled. “Henry Ralph Lestrade.”

Molly felt her eyes welling up again, but for different reasons.

Ralph had been her father’s name.

“I like it,” Greg rested his forehead against Molly’s. “Do you like it, Little Man?” he rubbed Molly’s belly and smiled when he felt the butterfly kicks. “I think he does.”

“Good,” Molly snuggled against her husband.

She said her boy’s name in her head again… his full name.

His real name…

 _Henry Ralph Lestrade-Holmes_.

**

8 August 2015  
En route to  Westminster  
Saturday afternoon  
12:39 AM

“Goddammit,” Violet Hunter said bitterly to Sherlock in the back seat of the black cab.

Sherlock didn’t even bother looking up from his mobile. “We’re getting close,” he told his sulking flat-mate/assistant/fake-girlfriend.

“Close only counts in hand grenades and horse shoes.”

Now Sherlock looked up. “What on earth does _that_ mean?”

“Oh, you’re the genius, figure it out yourself,” she said sourly, looking out the window, watching the Belgravia opulence fade away as the cab took them back to the working class area where Baker Street was located.

While Sherlock had kept Rucastle entertained, Violet had followed the zombie-like Tristan Holloway Rucastle down to the basement. Violet’s heart had stopped when she saw the yawning darkness below her, but Tristan had been with it enough to switch the lights on. Violet had blinked but once her vision had adjusted, she had been surprised. Although in twenty-twenty hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have been. Like the rest of the house, the basement had looked very modern. Fluorescent lighting, white walls and white floors were the first things Violet noticed when she took the last step into Tartarus.

She had itched to pull her gun out as Tristan led her down the corridor. There were three doors, two on the left and one on the right. Violet had been genuinely surprised to find the doors unlocked. But in the flurry of packing, Violet had supposed it would be highly inconvenient to deal with locking and unlocking.

The door on the right had been an enormous wine cellar. The first door on the left had been where the furnace and water-heater were kept. But the second door on the left had indeed been Lady Elise’s old dark room.

The door scraped against the floor as Violet had swung it open. Her heart had started racing when she snaked her arm around the doorway, searching for the light switch. She half-expected Toller to grab her wrist and ask in his oily voice, “And what are you doing in here?”

Tristan merely stood in the hallway and sang, “He used to call me Thalia…”

“That’s nice,” Violet had mumbled as she kept searching for the switch. The walls had felt funny. Spongy even. She had shuddered, not daring to imagine what she might be touching.

Finally she had found a switch and flipped it up. A horrifying red light filled the room. Violet’s throat had constricted in fear but she had taken a deep breath. She had reminded herself that back when cameras used film instead of digital technology, red safety lights were used in lieu of regular lighting. The actual film had to be transferred from camera to canister in total darkness, of course. But once the film had been developed and dried, a red safety light was used during the actual printing of the photograph. There was no way to perform the delicate and tedious process of transferring the image from the negative to photographic paper in pitch blackness. Or during when the paper was dipped in four different chemicals to preserve the image on the light-sensitive paper.

Violet entered the dark room and found another light switch that turned the overhead lights on.

At first glance, it seemed like… well… an old dark room.

A long metal table stood in the middle of the room. The table had once been used to put pans of developer, stop bath, fixer and water on. Metal cupboards, metal countertops and an old metal sink. An enlarger sat neglected at the end of the countertop. It looked like it belonged in a museum. Old fashioned developing reels and canisters sat next to the enlarger. There was even an old faded box Kodak film on the counter. A wire clothesline ran across the room that still had plastic clothes pegs clamped to it. Undoubtedly this is where Lady Elise hung her freshly printed pictures up to dry.

There had been a drain in the floor, by the table.

Violet had noticed the floor around the drain was wet.

She had walked to the sink and saw a hose, neatly coiled up, in the sink. The spout dripped slightly. Violet had turned one of the taps. The water had stopped dripping.

Then she had looked at the walls again. They had looked and felt… squishy. No. Foamy.

She had taken a step closer to the wall and pressed her hand against the foam again. It had flattened against her hand and then popped back into shape when she pulled her hand away.

“Oh my God,” she had said hoarsely as she stared in horror at the foam-covered walls.

She had then vaguely remembered taking piano lessons at college because she needed an easy credit. She had remembered practicing in a small studio where the walls had been covered with this same gray foam. She had remembered enjoying playing as loud as the hell she wanted to because the gray foam was Acoustic Foam, used exclusively for….

“Sound-proofing,” Violet had whispered as she crept backwards out of the room, turning the lights off as she backed out, then cursing herself for _touching_ anything, leaving fingerprints.

_Fuck…_

She didn’t know what was more frightening… that she had left indelible traces of Violet Hunter behind in the house ( _What was I thinking? What was Sherlock thinking? Having me here undercover? How am I supposed to testify in open court against Rucastle?_ ) … or the fact that every instinct she possessed screamed at her that she just found a kill room.

Why else would a dark room need to be sound-proofed? It only needed to be light-proofed.

Violet had just shut the door, trying to figure out what to do next when she heard Mrs. Toller calling “Trixie? Trixie? Where are you, luv?”

“Shit,” Violet Hunter had whispered to herself. But Violet Smith had called out loudly “She’s down here Mrs. Toller!”

The _White Diamonds_ perfume hit her like a slap when Mrs. Toller had found them. “There better be a good reason for this, Miss Smith,” she had sniped. “Why are you even here?”

Violet had explained and then said, “I’m so sorry, but I found her wandering about. I couldn’t leave her. But I don’t know how to make her go back upstairs.”

“Go do something useful and pack Edward’s things like you were told,” Mrs. Toller had snapped. Then she had crooned to Tristan, “Trixie, can you come with me? That’s a good girl. How about a bath today? Please?”

Violet had fled and had packed Edward’s things while the boy sat on his bed, watching her as he sucked on a giant cherry lollipop. Fortunately, most of his clothes had already been packed by Mrs. Toller. She only had to pack his toys and books.

 “You’ll never find him,” the boy had taunted her when she had finished packing and had turned to leave the brat to finish his lollipop.

Violet had taken the bait. “Never find who, Eddie?”

The lollipop had turned his lips and teeth blood-red. He looked like a child-vampire. “Little Carlo,” he sing-songed as he swung his legs back and forth, “You’ll never find him.”

Violet had found herself wondering if this was how Jim Moriarty had been like as a child. She tried to tell herself that it was illogical to be afraid of a six year old boy.

But she had bolted from the room anyway.

Sherlock had just beaten Rucastle at chess again when Violet returned to the library. They had made their excuses and regretfully turned down his offer of lunch.

“See you Monday then!” Rucastle had boomed, in a much better mood now he got to spend time with his new best friend. “Can’t wait to meet the Watsons, I’ll have a car pick the lot of you up at 221B. Enjoy your Saturday.”

“Insipid man,” Sherlock had muttered as they waited outside for the cab he had called. “I cannot wait until I can finally reveal to him just how utterly uninteresting he really is. While you got to go have all the fun, I had to listen to the differences between Fashion Week in Paris and Fashion Week in Milan.”

“ALL THE FUN?” Violet had squawked at him once they were safely ensconced in the cab, on their way back to the relative safety of 221B Baker Street.

Now, as the cab brought them closer and closer to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock reminded Violet, “We confirmed Evie Payne-Ellis is not at Rucastle’s London house.”

“But we don’t have a smoking gun to give to The Met for an arrest or a search.”

_And my fingerprints are everywhere in that house… shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshit…_

“Wrong,” Sherlock droned and he quickly told her what John had discovered.

“Holy shit,” Violet said faintly. “When are you and John going back to Rucastle’s house?”

“No point, you confirmed Evie Payne-Ellis is not in the house. We’re going to investigate his Soho offices. Remember, he bought all those buildings, not just the one that houses his studio and office. Perfect place to hide a terrified girl and then murder her, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, perfect,” Violet muttered as the cab pulled on to Baker Street.

She pulled out her mobile and texted Mary’s prepaid:

Tonight. After the boys leave.

“Just perfect,” she said again, putting her mobile back into her handbag.

Sherlock pretended he didn’t see Violet text Mary. 

But he rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

“John will probably insist on dinner before leaving,” he grumbled. “Inconvenient.”

Violet noticed his hands shaking slightly.

She dug into her handbag and produced a handful of sweets.

“Yeah, how dare he,” Violet deadpanned as Sherlock took two pieces of candy. “I’m going to make soup for lunch. And you will eat it, even if I have to sit on you and pour it down your throat,” she informed him as the cellophane crinkled while he unwrapped the candy.

“Fine,” Sherlock snarled as he popped the sweets in his mouth. “Don’t forget to reschedule your doctor’s appointment.” He glanced at her hands, steady for once. “We’re leaving for The Copper Beaches on Monday.”

“Oh shit,” she groaned as the cab stopped. “Yeah, I will. Thanks for reminding me.”

Sherlock snatched another piece of candy from her and exited, leaving Violet to pay for the cab. _Jackass_ …. She grumbled to herself as she got her money out. Good thing Mycroft had unfrozen her accounts…

_Mycroft…_

She profoundly hoped Anthea had followed her advice.

She also hoped she could find something tonight to crucify Mycroft with.   

Then she wouldn’t have to worry about her fingerprints at Rucastle’s, would she?

**

8 August 2015  
King’s Cross  
Saturday afternoon  
12:51 PM

Victor Trevor pulled his mobile out of the pocket of his perfectly creased jeans to check on the time… and to see if Sherlock had texted back yet.

Victor shook his head and then actually checked the time. He hoped he would have time for a quick bite before getting on the train that would take him back to his tiresome wife. He had missed lunch while he had been signing some very important papers. Now he felt more than peckish, he was ravenous.

He sighed when he realized he would not have time for even a greasy fast-food sandwich and a Coke. He toyed with the idea of just saying sod it and texting Patricia to tell her that he missed his connection and would catch the next one…

Maybe instead of going back to the hotel in Chelsea, he’d board the train to Winchester… take a stroll… pop in at 221B Baker Street now instead of waiting for Sunday.

The hell with Miss Smith and Dr. Watson… they didn’t know Sherlock like he did. 

They didn’t care about him like he did either.

As he entertained the very pleasant fantasy of dropping by and hopefully finding Sherlock home and preferably alone, his mobile hummed.

He frowned.

The caller ID said “Alice Fowler”.

He hit Answer and put the mobile to his ear. “Is the sun even up yet in the New World, dear sister-in-law?” he said heartily.

“Call it off.”

The smile slid off Victor’s handsome face. “What?”

“Call. It. Off,” Alice barked in his ear. “I changed my mind.”

“You changed your mind… you want to call off the investigation? You want to fire Sherlock Holmes?” Victor ran his hand through his hair, mind whirling now.

“He will be handsomely rewarded for his time, although a little bird told me he spent most of the investigation sick in bed while his girlfriend did most of the legwork. I really should just pay _her_.”

“Alice, I don’t… what on earth is going on?”

“What is going on is I was at peace with what happened,” Alice yelled. It was as if she was right next to him instead of thousands miles away in New York. “Then you nagged and nagged and nagged me into hiring _him_ to dig into my private life. A life that I had buried and _put behind me_.”

“Alice, that monster murdered your mother, psychologically tortured you for years not to mention the child currently at risk, how can you just stop now?”

“Don’t give me your false sympathy,” she sneered. “Maybe I haven’t figured out your endgame yet, but you always have one, Victor. You’re a snake in the grass. Slippery, slithery bastard you are and whatever you’re playing at, I want nothing from it. Call it off. Now. I’ll pay Holmes what I owe him this past week and next, but it’s over Victor,” and she rang off.

Victor stared at his now silent mobile, ears ringing.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he fired off a quick text:

AF just fired SH  
WTF is happening? – VT

He made himself continue walking into the train station, trying to avoid being  stampeded by the tourists rushing to take pictures of Platform 9 ¾. His mobile finally vibrated:

Temporary set-back.  
Patience.

“Fuck,” Victor leaned against a wall. He wished it was a magical wall he leaned against and that he could just fall through it to a different world than this one.  

Meanwhile, across an ocean, Alice Fowler paced in her living room, biting her thumbnail.

She had a fantastic view of Manhattan and this morning she was oblivious to it.

She looked at her hand and frowned, feeling tears welling up in her eyes.

She had stopped biting her nails when she escaped England and her father.

She put her hand over her eyes and swallowed a sob.

She wished her husband wasn’t in LA on business.

She hadn’t been this frightened since her mother died.

Her mobile rang.

She jumped and looked at the screen. It read Caller ID Not Available.

She knew who it was and answered it anyway.

“Yes?” she whispering, sounding more like the little girl she had been instead of the successful businesswoman she was now.

“Did you take care of it?” a pleasant, British voice purred in her ear. Upper class. Old money.

She tried not to vomit. She remembered That Voice from her childhood.

“Yes,” she struggled to keep her voice from shaking. “I did as you requested. I called my brother-in-law and told him to call it off with Holmes.”

“Excellent.”

“Now what?” she asked warily.

“Nothing,” Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper informed his cousin’s daughter. “You stay out of my business in London and I’ll stay out of your business in New York. Understood… Ally?”

Alice thought she really was going to be sick. Only her mother had called her Ally.

“Yes,” she said and rang off so she could rush to the nearest bathroom.

The Earl turned his mobile off with a self-satisfied smile and then tucked into his excellent pad thai that had the most succulent little shrimps he had ever tasted.  He had secured a table on the balcony with the most extraordinary view of the sky and sea. Blue fighting against blue.

He dined alone, as was the norm. No one really ever ran to join the freak with the half-melted face at restaurants or bars at any rate. No one except the prostitutes and gold diggers, of course. Those disgusting sub-species of women knew the price of a good suit, a nice wristwatch and the latest smartphone.

Not that _women_ in general were the Earl’s milieu.

His man servant was hunting for something more to his taste for this evening’s entertainment…

The Earl sighed, knowing what he would be presented with tonight. Not that the child wouldn’t be beautiful, but he would be a tropical beauty. If only the boy could be dainty as a china doll, skin as white and creamy as fresh milk, and a head full of black curls… oh, the curls had been his favorite part. Black and shiny as obsidian but soft as a kitten’s fur.

He had loved touching those silky, jet-black curls, especially while holding the boy’s head _down_ as he forced the child to kneel before him.

He wondered if those curls were still that soft today.

Pity that boys had to grow up to be men, really.


	19. Food of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Greek mythology,” John blurted out. “Persephone was the daughter of Demeter. She was kidnapped by Hades, the god of the underworld. He took her to…”
> 
> “Tartarus,” Sherlock finished for him, practically prancing back towards the middle of the studio. “Hades was supposed to release her but he tricked her into eating the food of the dead so she would have to stay in Tarturus at least half the year. What he tricked her into eating was…” he spread his arms out wide, very dramatically. Then he twisted his wrists and pointed down to the floor, arms still spread out wide..."
> 
> John and Sherlock together again while Mary and Violet take off on their own adventure.  
> It doesn't end well for anyone.

Chapter Nineteen: Food of the Dead

8 August 2015  
One of the many Starbucks somewhere in London…  
Saturday afternoon  
4:21 PM

The temperatures had sky-rocketed to levels no one in London could remember ever experiencing, even those who had lived through World War II. Violet felt her clothes sticking to her body as she walked towards the familiar green-and-white logo above the coffee shop. It was one of the few things in London that felt _familiar_ to her. She didn’t give a damn that it was a chain store, it was a small taste of America.

She had left the skirt (and gun-in-thigh-holster) on but had changed into a tank-top. Instead of her usual handbag, she carried her old rucksack, one of the two bags she had been able to save from her flat on Hartwill before it exploded.  

A bell tinkled as Violet opened the door to Starbucks. The blast of cold air was like a kiss from God. She sighed in relief as she went to order a very large iced coffee and a bottle of water.

She had sucked down a quarter of her iced coffee when Mary walked in.

She looked very Mary Watson, almost defiantly Mary Watson. She wore a lavender t-shirt, khakis shorts and her beloved old white trainers. Her short platinum hair was held back from her face with two tiny lavender clips. She ordered a grande iced hazelnut macchiato. She also carried a rucksack as well as a very small handbag, only big enough for her driver’s license and bank card.

As Mary slid into the booth, Violet noted that she was not wearing her wedding ring.

But then, Violet had also taken her fake engagement ring off as well. She was afraid of losing it. Her hands were so sweaty, it was a real possibility it could fall right off...

But she wasn’t really committed to Sherlock. It was just a prop in an act.

“Hello Anya,” Violet muttered in Russian before taking a huge drink from her iced coffee.

Mary, to her credit, only lifted her eyebrows. “Josie finally came to you two,” she said, in English.

“Why didn’t you tell us about Josie Tey?” Violet said, using her faux British accent since they were in public.

“I forgot,” Mary lied easily. “Bit preoccupied these days.” 

Violet tented her fingers and leaned forward. “You’ve got to stop lying to us, Mary. Sherlock and I, we’re your friends. And John is your husband. You have to trust us with the truth.”

Mary leaned back in her seat, eying Violet’s steepled hands. “I thought you said women like us didn’t have the luxury of friends?” she took a demure sip of her iced macchiato. “And the longer you live with him, the more you act like him, do you know that?” 

Violet, now realizing how she was sitting, lowered her hands. “Mary, I’m not in the mood for bullshit,” she said, her accent still British but her words very American.

“I had difficult time convincing the girl to come forward. It was only after you had told me about the new one that’s gone missing that I was able to finally get her to tell Sherlock.”

Violet let it go. “I take it you have your supplies in that rucksack?” When Mary nodded, Violet added, “And that you’re not wearing… that.”

“Oh, no, I figured it might be a tad suspicious leaving London dressed head to toe in black during a heat wave. The estates are in the middle of Bloody Nowhere. There’s a small village to the south of it, but after the village, it’s still a good twenty-five kilometers to the estates.”

“No wonder Mycroft loves it out there,” Violet muttered. She could see Mycroft playing the part of the Lord of the Manor. “I got in touch with our new best friend Anthea. She confirmed that Mycroft has been in closed-door meetings all day. Apparently Russia and Russian-occupied parts of the Ukraine have been acting a little too interested in Afghanistan once again. She’s supposed to arrange for a car to take him to one of his London hideouts when the meetings end, which could be right now. Or midnight.”

“Right,” Mary nodded. “Well, it’s a two-hour drive and the village itself is hardly large enough to be called a proper village. It’s just a cluster of cottages, the church and vicarage, a small primary school, a petrol station, a greengrocers and a butcher’s shop,” she rattled off the landmarks and locations, demonstrating the power of her memory. “Oh and a post office. Sherlock said the bank, the library and the cinema closed ages ago. There was never a secondary school, most sent the kids off to boarding school. Or home-schooled.”

Sherlock’s childhood isolation sounded bleaker by the minute.

Violet checked her gold wristwatch. “Yeah, everything there will probably be closed then by the time we get there.”

“I made sandwiches for the trip. Don’t feel like eating nasty fast food. I’ve brought water bottles and a flask of coffee too. Oh, should probably use the loo here before we’re off, unless you fancy having a pee in an open field,” Mary advised as she slid out of the booth again.

Violet wrinkled her nose, remembered being a teenager in Indiana and having to do her business in a corn field during a party in a different middle of nowhere. “Good call,” she said, sliding out of her booth. “Mary, are you ready for… whatever we may find tonight?”

“I’m ready to find my daughter,” Mary said quietly. “Go ahead, you first,” she tilted her head towards the lavatories.

 _Am I crazy_ , Violet thought as she made her way to the Ladies’, _or is there a part of Mary that’s actually… enjoying this?_  

She pitied John.

Mary was smart, she was tough, she was strong and she loved John and their child fiercely and unconditionally… but…

… he deserved better.

 _Sherlock,_ tell him _you love him, fucking_ tell him _…_ but her own heart hurt when she thought that. 

Meanwhile the skies outside darkened as the storm clouds rolled in from the west.

**  

8 August 2015  
Persephone Studios  
Saturday evening  
6:21 PM

John could deal with _hot_. Most of his military service had been spent in Afghanistan, after all.

 _Humid_ was a whole other kettle of fish. And a miserable one at that.  

London seemed to be visibly wilting under the rotten heat wave. Every night enormous cumulus clouds would build up, promising rain. And all it would produce was heat lightning and half-hearted thunderclaps.

 _This bloody weather is the worst kind of tease_ John thought irritably. _Gets you all hot and bothered but doesn’t give you any release._

But John kept that comment to himself. Most double entendres and innuendos flew over the Great Detective’s head anyway. And the ones that didn’t only embarrassed him, which put him in an utterly foul mood.

So John just moaned, “Jesus Christ,” after he and Sherlock got out of the black cab.

Sherlock watched his friend wipe his brow with his left hand.

Noticed he was not wearing his wedding band.

Elected to keep his mouth shut… for once.

“Come along,” Sherlock merely murmured as they started walking down the colorful streets of Soho, towards Rucastle’s studios.

He felt his mobile vibrating in his trouser pocket. He plucked it out and read the text he received from Lestrade. He stopped dead in his tracks, right in the middle of the pavement. “What… I can’t… that… that… _bloody_ …”

“Sherlock?” Concern creased John’s face. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“IDIOT,” Sherlock finally spluttered out.

“Who?”

“Mason, that mutton-headed muppet,” Sherlock seethed, starting to pace around John in a circle. “He threw Sergeant MacDonald off the case.”

“What?” John swiveled his head this way and that as Sherlock continued circling him. “ _Why?_ ”

 Sherlock stopped dead in front of John, locking his eyes on John’s. In a terse voice, he told him “According to Lestrade, Mason accused her of overstepping boundaries.”

“Overstepping… what? She’s doing her _damn job_.”

“Yes, apparently too well,” Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he fired an angry text back to Lestrade. “Apparently Whitey is feeling a bit threatened by Alex’s proficiency. He thanks her for her time on this case, but since Galen is back from his Sex Holiday, she needs to resume reporting back to him and not to worry about the Burned Girls case any longer.”

“No… he can’t just…. He _can’t do that_!” Enraged and frustrated, John didn’t even bother to correct Sherlock when he called Lestrade “Galen” instead of “Greg”. Bewildered, John shook his head. “What about Westaways? What about the Tollers and their connection? He can’t ignore that lead, even if it’s a shaky one, legally speaking.”

“The imbecile can and is,” Sherlock said, his teeth still clenched.

“So he’s not going to get a search warrant? Or going to question Missy Stroper or Josie Tey?”

“He told Alex there isn’t enough evidence to merit a warrant, there is no need to disturb Ms. Stroper on a Saturday and that most likely, Miss Tey is a hysterical young woman who imagined the entire near-abduction in order to procure some attention for herself,” Sherlock laughed bitterly as his mobile whirred again. He looked down and read out loud for John the next text he received from Lestrade:  

The cock then told Alex  
she needs to let someone  
with more experience than  
her handle this case - GL

“More experienced… Oh my God, are you fucking kidding me?” He could only stare at Sherlock in disbelief. “Is that knob actually starting a pissing match when there’s a young woman’s life  at stake?” John shook his head. “It’s not right. It’s not fucking right. Maybe he’s got more experience, but Alex’s definitely smarte-” 

Sherlock’s mobile hummed again. Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes skimmed the next text from the DI. “Just as I deduced,” Sherlock groaned, letting the hand holding the mobile drop while the other ran through his hair. “Lestrade said Mason made a dog’s dinner of his last two cases. He needs a big win to avoid an inquiry about his fitness for duty. Oh why can’t people just _think_ about the far-reaching consequences of their actions instead of pursuing short-termed goals for instant gratification? If he’s too stupid to solve two simple murders, he’s not going to have the capacity or ability to solve a murder like this one. He should retire and draw his pension,” Sherlock started pacing around John again, clenching his fists and muttering: “If he could solve this case by himself (which he can’t) it’s not going to save his career.”

John grabbed Sherlock by his upper arms, stopping his furious circling. “Stop that. You’re making me dizzy.” Once Sherlock stood still, John asked, “Do you think Mason is using us to do the heavy lifting and then he’s going to take the credit for our work?”

“Oh, I don’t care about that, _the credit_ ,” Sherlock spat. “It’s always about The Work, John, not the accolades. I have no desire to be lauded by our fair-weathered friends in the media or NSY.” He shrugged a bony shoulder. “Oh he’ll most definitely get away with stealing the credit from us but not from Alex. Lestrade’s already planning on filing a formal complaint. All Mason accomplished was destabilizing his already shaky career even more. Even if he doesn’t get sacked, Alex and Lestrade won’t ever lift a finger to help him solve another case. And neither shall I, even if it’s an Eleven,” Sherlock proclaimed. 

“And I thought Anderson and Donovan were bad,” John groaned. “At least they fucking cared about the victims, not themselves. Right, so… what do we do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock arched a bushy eyebrow. “Oh we’re not deviating from our plans, John.” He started walking again, in his long-legged hurried gait he used when he was particularly angry. But at least he had started walking forwards instead of in circles. John found himself jogging a bit to keep up. “This is a most cleverly plotted mystery, intricately detailed and planned with precision. But Rucastle is an idiot. He is pompous and self-congratulatory. He feels the world owes him recognition for his brilliance.”

“Something you can relate to,” John said before he could help himself.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “I do not expect anyone to kiss my arse because I’m brilliant. I simply would appreciate it if people would just acknowledge that I am their intellectual superior and accepting that, then they do me the great favor of staying out of my way while I am Working.” 

They turned a corner and started walking down a dodgy-looking alley. John found himself wishing they would have brought Gladstone. Sherlock had vetoed that suggestion, worried what the heat could do to the dog if they stayed out later than anticipated.

“OK, so we know Rucastle’s a bit dim,” John started to say but Sherlock cut him off.

“Wrong. He has average intelligence, but his narcissism clouds his judgment. When I had that tedious dinner with him last night, I could tell he desperately wanted to brag about _something_ , but something stilled his tongue. It was not prudence that kept him silent, John. It was fear. I even attempted to get him drunk so his inhibitions would be lowered. But with his girth and the amount of food he was consuming, it was impossible. I didn’t dare attempt to keep up with him because with my slender build as well as my dislike for the taste of most alcohols…”

“You would have been under the table in three drinks,” John grinned. 

Sherlock scowled but refrained from commenting. “Violet found a possible kill room in the basement of his house. You found a connection between the missing girl and the murdered girls. We have reason to believe Mrs. Toller is the one procuring the girls and Toller is disfiguring them after they have been murdered. The young boy Edward is showing distressing signs of personality disorder which leads me to believe he has witnessed parts of this disturbing ritual of abduction, murder and disposal. So logic dictates Rucastle is at least ordering the the killing and quite possibly supervising. As my dear flat mate would point out, the actual act of murder does not fit his profile,” his nostrils flared slightly, as they always did in regards to Violet’s profiling. He considered her field of expertise a pseudoscience. “However, after _my_ close observation, he does not have the sufficient intelligence and self-control to organize and plan something like this. ‘Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius.’**”

John hesitated then said nervously, “There’s the connection to the Earl.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said after a beat. “That hasn’t been far from my mind. He is devious enough to create such a cunning, sadistic plan but what the motive is, I cannot fathom. He’s not like Moriarty. Jim Moriarty created chaos for chaos’ sake. Jim did what he did because he was _bored_.  The Earl… the Earl always has a reason for his actions.”

 _Does he?_ John thought as hate flowed through him again. _And what is his reason for abusing little boys?_

“Power,” Sherlock answered John’s silent thoughts without so much as a glance at him.

“Of course,” John muttered. “He’s a bully. A sadistic, piece of shit pedoph-”

“Enough,” Sherlock said softly but firmly.

John shut up but internally he still raged at the injustice of it all.

Again, as if he read his mind, Sherlock sighed impatiently, “John, do not let the sins of the past interfere with solving the crimes of the present. What was done cannot be undone. Forward, John. We move forward.”

John followed Sherlock as he sharply turned the corner, out of the alley. “Is that it then?” John asked, pointing to the row of old factory buildings.

“It is,” Sherlock studied the buildings with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “This is the ‘where”.’ Here is where we will discover what is motivating Rucastle to commit murder, who is the villain actually planning these murders for him as well as how he murdered his first wife, Lady Elise. Not to mention why he continues to drug his current wife. He is giving her far more than a seven-percent-solution I assure you,” Sherlock suddenly produced a brilliant smile. Despite the heat, despite how both the Earl and Victor Trevor had encroached onto his life, despite how Mycroft continued to threaten him and despite how the spectre of Moriarty continued to haunt him… he _smiled_. 

“Oh, John,” he puffed out his chest. “I do love these two cases, I must confess. Despite the setbacks and how utterly dull Rucastle truly is, solving these cases will be most satisfactory.”

“Not to mention finding the girl?” John reminded him. “Evie Payne-Ellis?”

 “Oh yes, of course. Her,” Sherlock gave a little shake of his curly head then turned to John. “The game is on.” 

“Oh joy, oh bliss,” John mumbled as he followed the Great Detective towards the headquarters of Persephone Ltd.   

**

8 August 2015  
The English Countryside  
Saturday evening  
7:10 PM

Winterbourne-on-Avon technically should only have been an hour and a half drive away from London. However, it took an extra thirty minutes just to get out London itself. Plus, weekend traffic was hellish, full of tourists heading into the city and natives heading out of it.

Still, once London actually was in the wing mirror, Violet felt a surge of freedom she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Other than the trip the four of them took last May to Scotland, this had been the first time she had left London in years. The trip to Scotland had been no holiday either. Moriarty had beckoned and Mycroft had supervised. Plus she had always either been with John or with Sherlock.

Neither man had let Violet be by herself. Nor did they allow Violet and Mary to be alone together either.

 _Wonder why…_ Violet thought, casting a sideways look at the driver, a blonde woman who looked more like a soccer mom than a professional killer.

 _But then I look like a kindergarten teacher most of the time so who am I to judge?_ Violet sighed to herself, looking out the window at the rolling English countryside.

Part of her wished she had brought Gladstone, but unfortunately he would have slowed them down with puppy-potty breaks. Still… he’d be nice to have along for something like this.

Also, she hated the idea of leaving him behind…

 _I could do it…_ she found herself thinking. She and Mary hadn’t spoken very much during the road trip so Violet found herself fantasizing. _I could possibly make a run for it. We’re heading north, northeast… Coventry._ _Hit an ATM  in Winterbourne. Get as much blood money out of Jack Woodley’s off-shore accounts as possible. Buy Mary off or hit her over the head, whatever it takes to get her off my back. Then get a cab or hop a train to Coventry. From Coventry to Birmingham… Birmingham has an airport…_

 _I could be in the Netherlands by sunrise. They’d expect me to go to France. But I would go to the Netherlands then cross into Germany. People forget_ ich spreche Deutsch _because I’ve been tutoring Archie in French. But I was born in Germany. According to Mom, my first word was German_ … keks. _Cookies._

_I could be free…_

_Sherlock would understand…_

_He might even think that it was funny, pulling a fast one on Mycroft like that…_

_… and then that would be one less obstacle for him to deal with._

She studiously looked out the window, purposely did not look at Mary.

_One less person between him and John… unless Victor Trevor screws that up for them… asshole… maybe Mary can just kill him… or maybe tonight we’ll find where Maisie is and John can continue his façade of having a nice, normal family if he’s reunited with his daughter. And Sherlock and Victor can figure things out…_

_… but… I could_ do _this. I can run. I’ve done it before._

Her heart hammered. The desire to leave England behind pulsed throughout her entire body. 

_I could live quite happily if I never see London again…_

_… except I made a promise to Sherlock to get him out from  underneath’s Mycroft’s foot…_

_… and I promised Mary I’d help her find Maisie. If she wasn’t John’s wife, I’d tell her to fuck off right about now, after all the lies she’s told plus that stunt with Anthea…_

Her heart stopped pounding and actually sank all the way down to the soles of her feet when they drove into Winterbourne-on-Avon. It was pretty. It was picturesque and quaint. It screamed “Quintessential English Village.”

And it was tiny.

Mary’s description hadn’t done it justice. The “cluster of cottages” consisted of only twenty little brick houses, a quarter of  which stood empty. Violet spotted at least eight “For Sale” signs in the front gardens of both occupied and empty houses.

As they drove down the one paved road (which turned into cobblestone as they got into the heart of the town), Violet could see the empty buildings where the bank, the library and the cinema had been. The largest building in the town was the church; the second largest being the one storeystory primary school. The petrol station only had two pumps. Violet also observed that the greengrocers and butcher’s shops were  family-run businesses. Violet shrewdly guessed if the Bartlett family decided to get out of the meat and produce business altogether , the villagers would have to make the trip to either Coventry or Rugby to buy food.

But it didn’t seem desolate. The roads were clean, the pavement in front of the shops swept and there were flowers in the front gardens of most of the homes.

They even had to stop for a bit when a herd of sheep darted across the road.

“Are you kidding me?” Violet stared as the woolly little beasts took over the street.

Yes, it was a pretty little English town dying a pretty little death as the larger cities cannibalized its most precious of resources: its young people.

“Wonder what happened to this place?” Violet mused once the last little lamb got out of their way and Mary put the van back in gear again. 

Where and how Mary got the vehicle, Violet didn’t want to know and didn’t ask.

“After the night we had to fetch him from here, John had asked Sherlock about what happened to the estates and to the town many times. He’s very closed-mouthed about it, Sherlock. But he finally told me and John a bit about it one night. Apparently a long, _long_ time ago, Sherlock’s family had been part of the peerage. They lost the titles ages ago, after the First World War, I believe. I don’t recall how that happened though,” Mary frowned, trying to remember. Then she gave her blonde head a slight shake and continued with her story:

“Anyway, after his family lost the titles, they still owned quite a bit of the land around here and they leased it out for farming and livestock. But apparently Sherlock’s dad got himself into a bit of a financial bind when Sherlock was quite little. He ended up selling everything except the family estate, of course. Then the land was sold again to developers and whatnot. Most of the farmers and their families left. Had to. There was no work. Then the new motorway was put in which bypassed the town. No one really had a reason to drive through here anymore. So Winterbourne just sort of withered away. Shame, really. It’s a pretty little place. Be a nice commuter town between Rugby and Coventry.”

But Violet was barely listening to Mary. She rubbed her forehead as she watched the town disappear behind her as they headed towards the Holmes estates.

_Sherlock’s dad must have sold the land to the Old Earl in order to terminate his partnership with him. It’s the only thing that makes sense because his dad had made money when he ended his business dealings with the Old Earl. How else could he have ended a business contract without getting the shit sued out of him? And what else could have guaranteed the Old Earl not going after Sherlock for setting his monstrous son on fire?_

_No matter how much things change, land will always be more valuable than money, information and power. I may be a soldier’s child, but I am also the granddaughter of farmers. Sure, it’s nice to have money, but if there’s no food to buy, you can’t eat money._

_The Cullen-Culpeppers knew this as well. That’s why they were so eager to adopt Ford Holmes. They thought he was going to inherit the lands, but that all went to Sherlock’s dad instead, who got himself in over his head. So the Cullen-Culpeppers got the land they wanted in the end… just not in the way they had thought they would._

 “Violet?”

“Hm?” Violet looked over at Mary, who had pulled the car over.

 “We’re here.”

Lost in her thoughts, Violet had also lost all track of time. She blinked and looked out her window. Her jaw dropped when she saw the regal old manor with its neatly manicured lawns, ancient trees and flowerbeds. “That’s… that’s… is that really it?”

“Yup,” Mary turned the ignition off.

“It’s like what you see on TV or the movies…” _It’s a fucking castle…_

“Sherlock said Mycroft sometimes lets the place out to the BBC or to Hollywood when they’re filming a period-piece drama, but it’s been ages since he’s done that,” she said as she hopped out of the van. 

“Oh,” Violet said weakly, staring at the gigantic house. _House? It’s a damned fortress._ She gazed up hopelessly at the four towers at the corners of the building as well as the great, stately tower rising up in the middle.   _It’s going to take all night to find anything here..._ she thought dismally. _Three storeys, probably a basement where the kitchens used to be, back in the olden days. Servants’ quarters upstairs plus the all the hidden staircases and oh God all the bedrooms… the master bedrooms, the guest bedrooms, there’s probably at least ten bedrooms total if not more, plus the bathrooms, the dining rooms, the library, plus all those towers… shit._

_This is going to suck._

“Violet?”

“Coming!” Violet shook her head and opened the van door. “Oh God,” she complained as she stepped out of the nice, cool van into the grueling heat. “Thanks,” she said as she took her rucksack and a bottle of water from Mary.

Mary crouched down and pulled out her gun from her rucksack. She checked the sights and took the safety off. Violet, with great trepidation, did the same. 

“Let’s go,” Mary hefted her rucksack back onto her shoulder.

“And you’re sure the security systems have been disabled?” Violet asked warily as she followed Mary to the front door.

“Oh yes,” she said blithely as if Violet asked her if she had remembered to pick up the dry-cleaning. “Right now a pre-recorded loop is playing should Mycroft decide to pull up the video footage on his mobile or computer.” She had paid a pretty penny to ensure that. “We have until dawn. Plenty of time,” Mary stopped at the massive front door, “to really give this old mausoleum a proper search.” 

Violet wished she felt as confident as Mary sounded. “And we’re sure this place is empty? I hate to go in there and find a housekeeper or a grounds-taker inside…” 

Mary dug into her shorts pocket. “Sherlock said this place is empty except when Mycroft is here or when his parents hold their Christmas parties here. Anthea also said there’s a couple from town that come every Friday to dust and Hoover and do a general walk-through to make sure everything is in good order and on the first of the month, Mycroft sends in cleaners to do a thorough scrubbing. Otherwise, this place,” she produced a key, “is empty.”

“Where did you get that?” Violet asked as Mary unlocked the door.

She gave Violet a sly grin, “I pickpocket Sherlock when he’s annoying.”

**

8 August 2015  
Back in London…  
Saturday evening  
7:21 PM

Anthea had avoided going home ever since her abrupt abduction.

After escaping those psychopaths, she had holed up in a hotel, evaluating her options.

Nothing had looked appealing.

Thank God Mycroft had been trapped in meetings all day. There was no such thing as a relaxing weekend for The British Government.

And thank God Sherlock and Dr. Watson were embroiled in a case. They were far too busy to give her the time of day. Who was she? Just Big Brother’s insignificant PA and a bit of eye-candy for Dr. Watson to ogle when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

And he was bloody married now too.

Wanker.

But she honestly didn’t know which Holmes brother was more intimidating. So until she gathered her wits, she stayed a step ahead of both.

However she couldn’t outrun her conscience.

 _I killed an innocent woman_ , she thought dully as a black cab brought her back to her flat. _I was played for a fool and I murdered an innocent woman._

She had finally decided there was nothing to do but to admit what she had done and submit her resignation…. on Monday.

Anthea did not become the personal assistant to The British Government because she was a stupid woman. She bloody damn well knew who Agent Hunter and AGRA were. She believed every single word of Violet and Mary’s threats. Anthea was more than willing to let them skulk around the Holmes’ manor today. They’d be back in London tomorrow. They had to come back tomorrow. Agent Hunter was Sherlock’s ward and AGRA was Dr. Watson’s wife. They would go looking for them. And when Sherlock looks for someone, chances are good he would find them. 

So Monday then, Anthea would come clean and the chips would fall where they may.

She wondered if she would be sent away, to Australia or New Zealand… or if she would just _disappear_ for her crime.

She tried to muster up the strength to care and found she couldn’t.

_I killed an innocent woman…_

She’d confess her crimes to the British Government. But she’d be damned if a pair of murderous criminals would determine her fate.

The cab stopped in front of her block of flats. She paid and got out. She trudged up the stairs, weary to the bone. Humiliation started to penetrate the guilt fogging her brain. _How could I have been so stupid? To blindly follow orders? To let myself get taken by AGRA… I am an idiot._  

She fished her key out of her handbag as she walked to her flat.

But she froze in front of her door.

She smelled… food?

Bangers and mash… her favorite comfort food, on the other side of her door… _inside her flat_.

She looped her handbag over her shoulder and also drew out her gun.

The fog had dissipated. She unlocked her door and nudged it open slightly with her toe. She pointed her gun straight ahead as she opened the door wider.

A bored, dry voice intoned “Do put that away, you stupid girl. Not only am I unarmed, but I also sign your pay cheques.” 

Anthea’s heart stopped. She tasted metal.

She pushed the door open wide, letting the arm holding the gun drop.

Mycroft sat in her armchair, sipping tea as if the place was his.

There was a tray next to him, a white cloth napkin draped over a silver food cover.

“Shut the door,” he ordered silkily.

Her entire body trembled. She shut the door and locked it. She put the safety back on her gun and put it back into her handbag. She clung to the handbag strap as if her life depended on it.

 “Do sit down,” Mycroft took a dainty sip of tea. “You certainly took your time coming back here. You’ll want to eat while that’s hot. And I’ll be ‘mother’,” he added as he rose from his seat. 

Anthea hung her handbag on the hat-stand she had by her door and then nervously sank down on her sofa. Her flat was quite small. It didn’t have a proper kitchen or dining room. Just a lounge, a bedroom and a bath.

Mycroft’s presence filled the entire flat.

He crossed to the coffee table where he had laid out her entire tea-service. He poured her a cup but before he handed it over to her, he placed a finger underneath her chin, gently forcing her to look up at him.

Anthea thought she was going to vomit.

Mycroft made a tut-tut noise. “Your poor face.”

The swelling around her nose had gone down a bit, but her chin was still black-and-purple from where Violet had viciously grabbed her. There were also bruises around her wrists from the ropes Mary had tied her with.

He handed her the tea cup. With shaking hands, she accepted it and took a fortifying swallow. It was unsweetened with just a splash of milk, exactly the way she liked it. He must have been monitoring her on CCTV. How else would he have known to have tea and hot food ready?

“Is this my last meal?” she choked out as Mycroft removed the napkin and food cover.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Dear me, I hope not,” he murmured as he put the sausages and mashed potatoes on a plate for her. He wrinkled his nose over the simple fare. “How unimaginative.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Oh, you know why,” he purred as he brought the plate of food as well as cutlery and a napkin to her. “Did you honestly think your absence would go unremarked upon?” His words were light but his face stern and patrician when he sat down. “I had MI-6 scouring the city for you.”

“I made a mistake,” she blurted out.

“Clearly,” Mycroft’s voice now matched his face.

“I planned on turning in my resignation on Monday.”

Mycroft sighed and ran his hand down his face. “My dear Andrea, do you think you are the first  ever to act on bad information that resulted in casualties?”

Anthea’s anxiety heightened. Ever since joining MI-6, Mycroft had never _ever_ called her by her true first name. And he had _never_ called her by her real surname.

But he didn’t call her by her real surname now. She calmed down when he admitted in a kind voice few people knew he possessed, “I was your age actually when I suffered my first experience with collateral damage. The first time is always the worst.” Then his voice resumed its usual cool tones, “But that is when we remember our first lesson…” he lifted his eyebrows as he looked at Anthea expectantly.

She knew what he wanted to hear: “Caring is not an advantage.”

“Exactly.”

“I acted rashly and killed an innocent woman,” Anthea admitted, in a calm, straight-forward voice.

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded. “And that blasted Mary Watson got a hold of the CCTV footage.”

“She was going to kill me.”

“I know.”

“Violet Hunter saved me.”

“Did she?”

Anthea nodded, “ _Ona ne znala, ya govoril russkiy_.”

“Ah,” Mycroft picked up his tea cup again. “She has a strange moral code, Hunter.”

“She’s helping AGRA locate Marissa Watson.”

Mycroft’s nostrils flared. “That won’t do.”

“Can’t we just proceed with Operation Magdalene and be done with it?” Anthea pleaded.

But Mycroft shook his head. “Not until I can figure out how to un-do the double-hit Mrs. Watson has in place. Did Hunter indicate in any way she knows about Mary shooting Sherlock?”

“I don’t think she knows.”

“Hmm…” Mycroft took another sip of tea. “Eat slowly. I know you feel nauseous. But you need to eat and you need to tell me _everything_.”

**

8 August 2015  
Persephone Studios  
Saturday night  
8:01 PM

“Sherlock,” John called from one of Rucastle’s drafting tables. “I think I found something.”

Sherlock had been meticulously going through Rucastle’s desk. Without looking up from the files he was reading, he muttered, “Either you found something or you didn’t, John.”

John shot Sherlock a filthy look. “OK, fine. I found something and I think it’s important. Violet said that Rucastle had created a jewelry line for some American big-box retail chain, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the _haute couture_ crap he designs? Some of his dresses are made out of the strangest shit. Like razor blades?”

“Mm. Get to the point, John.”

John held up a necklace. “Fancy a flutter that one of these,” he held up a necklace made entirely up of keys. “Opens a secure door? Or perhaps a safe?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. Then one of his rare, genuine smiles lit up his eburnean face.

“Well done,” he murmured so lowly John almost didn’t hear him the first time. However he heard Sherlock well enough the second time after he had bolted from the desk to John’s side. “Well done indeed, John. You are learning to observe rather than see faster than I expected.”

A starburst of pride warmed John but he concealed the rush of emotion.

“Clever,” he said blandly as he handed the necklace over to Sherlock. “Hiding it in plain sight.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t go as far as to call him clever. But the man does possess a rat-like cunning.” Tossing the necklace up and down in his right hand, he surveyed the room, looking up and looking around. “But where would he hide…” he pursed his lips together as his left hand rested on his hip. “A door… a safe…” he whirled around, a motion made far less dramatic as the Belstaff was absent. Sherlock looked up again, and then he looked down at the floor. Then he inhaled sharply.”Ahhhh….”

“What?”

“John, do you remember,” Sherlock’s eyes were aglow with sudden excitement. “What Alice said Rucastle called his favorite models?”

“Uh… his muses… I think.”

“And what does his call this place?”

“His office?”

Now Sherlock scowled at him “Come, John. You had been doing so well. Don’t slip back into the mundane. _Think_! What is this place called? This particular building, what’s its name?” 

A ghost of an idea floated across John’s mind. He groped after it, knowing once he grabbed hold of it, he would realize what Sherlock had already deduced. “Persephone Studios.”

“And the official name of his business is Persephone Ltd. Now, what did the Second Mrs. Rucastle call the First Mrs. Rucastle’s darkroom?”

“Tartarus,” John said promptly. Then suddenly he remembered being scolded by his father when he was either nine or ten years old. He hadn’t come immediately to the dinner table when his mother called. He hadn’t come when he was called because he had been reading one of Harry’s books in the lounge… _Better not let Harry catch you nicking her things again, Johnny… and I told you to stop reading girls’ books, son…_

He remembered being confused by his father’s remark. He didn’t understand how this particular Harry’s book was _girly_. When his mother had been calling for him, he had gotten to the chapter about the adventures of Perseus. He had been engrossed by how after Perseus slew the monster Medusa, the winged horse Pegasus had been born from her dead body… came right out of her _neck_ after Perseus chopped Medusa’s bloody head off. There had been nothing _girly_ about that… it was scary and gory and a _great story_ …that was when he had fallen in love with…

“Greek mythology,” John blurted out. “Persephone was the daughter of Demeter. She was kidnapped by Hades, the god of the underworld. He took her to…”

“Tartarus,” Sherlock finished for him, practically prancing back towards the middle of the studio. “Hades was supposed to release her but he tricked her into eating the food of the dead so she would have to stay in Tarturus at least half the year. What he tricked her into eating was…” he spread his arms out wide, very dramatically. Then he twisted his wrists and pointed down to the floor, arms still spread out wide.

John hustled over to Sherlock. He looked down. “Hades gave her pomegranate seeds…OH!”

He then saw the mosaic Violet had stared quizzically at when she had come to interview for her position. A giant pomegranate.

“ _Brilliant!_ ” John couldn’t help himself as Sherlock dropped down to his hands and knees and started crawling around on the floor, looking for a keyhole.

“Ah ha,” Sherlock ran his finger over a dark spot that one would be forgiven for thinking it was a just a small piece of mosaic that happened to look black. He fumbled with the keys, hampered by the leather gloves he had insisted on wearing once inside the studios. To the untrained eye, it looked like Sherlock guessed at what key was the right one to use.

But John knew Sherlock too well and for too long now. He was not surprised that the key Sherlock selected was the key that opened the secret compartment in the floor.

As Sherlock started lifting out sheaves of papers and photographs, he explained, “Ironic how we keep describing Rucastle as a narcissist as Narcissus is also a figure from Greek mythology. But Rucastle does see himself as a god. When Violet left the restaurant early in order to, um…ah… extradite your wife from a precarious situation-”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Sherlock talked over him, “I had an interesting conversation with Rucastle regarding Greek mythology. He is obsessed, especially regarding the Hades and Persephone myth.”

“That’s nice. Getting back to the bit about Violet and my wife…”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Don’t you see, John? Rucastle fancies himself a god. He identifies with Hades, not Narcissus. He calls his favorite models his “muses”. He had nicknamed Tristan Holloway “Thalia”, who is the Muse of Comedy. Rucastle is looking-” Sherlock held up a headshot of Alana Grant. “For his Persephone.”

John blinked. The picture of the young woman had a big red X over her face. “Holy shit.”

“And when the girl doesn’t measure up…”

“He hands her over to Toller,” John felt his blood boil “To _play_ with.”

“He already had his first wife expire under mysterious circumstances,” Sherlock reached down again into the secret compartment. “When Tristan discovered the kill room, he couldn’t risk a second mysterious death. Also, she was the mother of his beloved son. His sentiment kept him from murdering her so he keeps her incapacitated instead.”

“By drugging her to her eyeteeth, oh God, Sherlock, we need to call the police.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “Rucastle and the Tollers are in transit. If the girl is not here and the police start poking around, they’ll get spooked and kill her now. Then hightail it out of the country. They’ll be on the first flight to South America before the Met can say boo.” 

“Sherlock, I really think-”

“John, they keep the victim alive for a month. The girl was taken two days ago. There was no sudden cancellation. There was no family emergency that caused Rucastle’s summer home to be open now. I did my research. The Copper Beaches has been sitting empty since June. It hasn’t been let out much because Rucastle charges an exorbitant amount of rent. And the people who can actually afford to pay hate him.”

“Then why in the hell did they invite us to join them?” 

“We’re their alibi,” Sherlock sat up, holding a thick black diary. “How could they possibly kidnap and kill a young girl when the Great Consulting Detective and his Blogger are staying with him? You see John,” Sherlock smirked as he thumbed through the diary. “Rucastle actually believes he’s cleverer than me. And he’s confident his benefactor has his back.”

John’s stomach twisted a bit, thinking about Rucastle’s possible benefactor. “What if he comes back from Thailand early? The Earl?”

“Mycroft is monitoring him for me as a great personal favor. I figured he owed me one since I’ve risked life and limb multiple times now as I hunt Moriarty,” Sherlock muttered as he skimmed the diary. “John, tell me. Who was the Greek god of wealth?”

“Plutus,” John said, surprised he remembered so much from his childhood readings.

Sherlock showed John the inside of the book. On top of the page it clearly read “Plutus Accounting and Financial Services.”

“It’s a ledger. An accounts ledger. Fancy a flutter on who their only customer is?”

But John could read just fine, even in the dim light of the studio. “Westaways,” he growled just as a rumble of thunder reverberated outside.

Sherlock took out his Smartphone and snapped pictures of the headshots, the diary and a diary page showing Westaways’ accounts. Then he neatly put everything back inside the secret compartment. Then he texted the pictures to Alex MacDonald along with the message:

You just received an anonymous tip  
Regarding a connection between  
Westaways and Persephone Ltd.  
Find out who owns Plutus A&FS – SH

Sherlock stood up and brushed the dust off his trousers. “Come along, John. Let us hope the girl was left behind here, although I have my doubts.”

“We looked through this entire building.”

“Violet said Rucastle bought this entire row of abandoned buildings. We have four more buildings to investigate.”

“Oh… balls,” John grumbled.

Those buildings probably wouldn’t be air-conditioned.

He sternly told himself to suck it up. If Evie Payne-Ellis was found in one of those buildings, it would be well worth it.

As they reached the ground floor, Sherlock’s mobile vibrated. Expecting one of Alex’s brief text replies, Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw Mycroft’s name lit up on the screen. And it wasn’t a text. He was actually calling him.

Irritating. An actual phone call. Mycroft knew Sherlock preferred texts.

 _Not now, Big Brother… working…_ he stuffed his mobile back into his pocket.

“What the hell?” he heard John exclaim next to him a minute later.

“Don’t answer that,” he sighed as he saw John take his mobile out of his pocket.

“It’s Mycroft,” John said helplessly as he hit the Answer button. “Hello?”

“Hello, John. Could I speak to my little brother if it’s not inconvenient?”

“Um, we’re kind of busy right now. Case and all,” John looked up at Sherlock and mouthed to him _You should talk to him_.

 _No_ Sherlock mouthed back.

“Considering the fact your wife is breaking into my childhood home as we speak, I do think it’s best I speak to Sherlock now, don’t you?”

“ _What?_ ” John stopped dead in his tracks. “Sherlock, he just said Mary’s breaking into your childhood home…what… what is going on?”

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and held his hand out for John’s mobile.  “Mycroft, this really is not the best time for us to be having a conversatio-”

“Maggie Jenner didn’t work for Moriarty, Sherlock, she worked for _us_.”

“What… no. How…?”

“She was assigned as undercover security detail to Molly Hooper after your miraculous resurrection. We knew if there was the slightest chance any survivors of the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ ever discovered Miss Hooper, apologies, Mrs. Lestrade’s role in Jim Moriarty’s downfall, her life would be at grave risk.”

 _Then who broke into Molly and Gavin’s flat and killed Molly’s cat?_ Sherlock’s head spun. “No… that’s wrong…”

“Dear, dear, Baby Brother, you don’t often make errors,” Mycroft continued speaking quite coolly. “But when you do, they are staggeringly enormous. Your blunder regarding a certain Miss Adler and the Bond Air fiasco comes to mind.”

“And I rectified that error. I did not make an error regarding Maggie Jen-”

Mycroft cut him off. “Your sentiment for the Watsons has blinded you, as Mrs. Watson’s maternal instincts are currently blinding her. You see, Sherlock, Mrs. Watson somehow got it into her head that Maggie had been involved in Marissa Watson’s abduction. Maggie was actually trying to throw Mrs. Watson off the scent.”

“Why?”

“To protect the baby, of course,” Mycroft purred. “And you and John and the rest of your motley crew, your Baker Street Irregulars.” Disdain positively dripped from Mycroft’s tongue. “I’m even including your pet federal agent in that group, although where her true loyalties lie, we’re never completely sure, are we, Sherlock?”

“Get to the point, Mycroft.”

“My agent made a fatal mistake. She thought if she told Mary the truth (that the child’s NICU nurse had been murdered) then Mary would be frightened off. Apparently Mrs. Watson is made of sterner stuff. She refuses to let this go. She’s obsessed now.”

“Why should she let this go?” Sherlock demanded. If Mycroft’s voice was cool, Sherlock’s was glacial. “It’s her _child_. Why don’t you want Mary and John to find their daughter?”

“What the hell is going on?” John repeated himself, shouting this time in a fiery rage. Sherlock shushed him and John fought the urge to rip the mobile out of Sherlock’s hand.

“No time to explain now, I’m afraid,” Mycroft told his younger brother. “I’m en route to Winterbourne-on-Avon to personally arrest Mary “AGRA” Watson nee Morstan for the murder of Agent Margery Jensen and for your attempted murder as well as for the abduction of my PA Anthea. This ridiculousness has gone on long enough, Sherlock. It’s over.”

“No, don’t,” Sherlock burst out.

“Don’t tell me what to do and I’ll extend you the same courtesy,” Mycroft’s voice stayed cool and calm. “You may want to relay a message to Agent Hunter.”

Sherlock felt his core grow cold. _Leave her alone, Mycroft, leave her alone, leave Violet alone…_

 “What message?”

“She can either cooperate by helping us apprehend Mary. Or she can share a cell with her,” and with that ominous threat, Mycroft rang off.

“What,” John’s words came out clipped and angry. “The _fuck_ is going on Sherlock?”

Sherlock succinctly filled John in as he composed a text to Violet:

Mycroft flying out  
to arrest Mary.  
Wants your help  
Arresting her.  
Get out of the house now – SH

“Oh God,” John’s voice swelled with panic. “Oh God, Sherlock, we have to go. We have to go get them now. _Right now_.”

“John, it’s a two hour drive. Mycroft and his cronies are en route via helicopter. He’ll be there in thirty minutes,” Sherlock said bleakly. “Possibly sooner if the wind comes from the south. But this storm might hinder him as well. Still, he’s on his way. We can’t possibly beat him there.”

“Why doesn’t he want me to find my daughter?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Right, I know, it’s not your fault,” John hated hearing the guilt in his best friend’s voice. “Just… Christ, Sherlock. What do we do?” 

“I’ve warned Violet. The only thing we can do is trust the girls’ abilities to get out of there quickly as possible and we… we continue with our work.”

“Sherlock I don’t know if I can…”

“We can either be productive by continue searching for Evie Payne-Ellis or we go back to 221B to twiddle our thumbs and go mad.”

“OK,” John’s voice faltered. He cleared his throat. “OK. Let’s get back at it, then.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder and gave him a supportive shake. “One thing I’ve discovered about both Mary and Violet is that they are very resilient and self-sufficient. I have a feeling Big Brother is going to very much regret tonight’s decision.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news and bad news... bad news first... I will be taking another little hiatus, but it's nothing bad. Just visiting family and friends for Thanksgiving and I just won't be able to post while I'm traveling. Good news.... this is no longer a WIP! Rough draft of the final chapter is done and have been sent off so cadogan can make it pretty. :^)
> 
> Updated to add: Sherlock's rant about mediocrity is from here: 
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Valley of Fear. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.


	20. Runs in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have an idea,” Mary said. 
> 
> “Oh good, because your other ideas have been awesome,” Violet snapped but followed Mary anyway..."
> 
>  
> 
> HEAVY-DUTY TRIGGER WARNINGS for graphic violence, gore, animal abuse and general "ick" factors.  
> My wonderful beta'er cadoganwest calls this my "Holy Shit!" chapter!
> 
> Enjoy...?

Chapter Twenty: Runs in the Family

8 August 2015  
The Holmes Estates  
Saturday night  
8:21 PM

Both Mary and Violet had changed right in the great hallway out of their civilian clothes into something a little more appropriate for the occasion.

Mary had her “assassin’s outfit” on. Violet wore something similar, only she wore a black tank top in deference to the sticky heat.

Mary had nodded in approval when she saw the gun in its holster strapped to Violet’s hip after she had shimmied out of her skirt.

“Nice piece,” she had said to Violet as she had pulled her stocking cap on.

Violet wasn’t sure how Mary could stand to wear so many clothes at the moment without passing out. “Thanks,” she had said with a quick grin while reaching for her black cargo trousers. “It’s my favorite accessory.”

Now, both wearing soft-soled boots, they padded down a darkened hallway. Neither woman wanted to risk turning the lights on. Granted they were in the middle of Godforsaken nowhere, still one couldn’t be too careful.

Which is also why they agreed that while splitting up would be quicker, more efficient, it lessened their personal defenses. “Even though we are both bad-asses, let’s just stick together,” Violet said in a hushed voice as the thunder rolled outside.

“Funny,” Mary said as they made their way to the library, the first room she remembered in this place: the room where they had found Sherlock, black and blue and bloody after he had gotten into a fistfight with Mycroft. “How you are so refined and proper when you’re Miss Smith, but as yourself, your speaking patterns are quite informal. Colloquial.”

“All part of the act.”

“Even your body language changes when you are ‘Miss Smith’, you walk like you are royalty, like we serfs should jump aside, out of your way. But now you move briskly, almost military. When you are you, you are definitely no queen. You’re a warrior.”

“Runs in the family,” she had said with a shrug. But she thought of her father, thought about how he was murdered just because he voiced an unpopular opinion to the wrong man. Even now, even after all these years, she admired how he had always toed the line by doing his duty and maintaining his personal moral code.

Her beloved brother Michael had been the same way.

She wondered what they would have thought of her now, like this… this “Miss Smith.”

She shook her head and told herself to concentrate.

“Is this it?” Violet held up the torch, shining it on a set of massive doors.“

Mary nodded and slowly opened the massive door.  Violet crossed her wrists in classic, standard police procedure, gun in one hand, torch in other. She shone the light through the room, inching inside. She checked her blind spots, checked the room again. Then she announced in a normal voice, “Clear.”

Mary entered and fumbled for the light switch. Violet flinched and blinked, “Shit, Mary…”

“It’s alright, look at those drapes,” Mary pointed with her gun at the huge, heavy, ugly curtains blocking the windows. “Those are old blackout drapes, like the ones they used the The War.”

Violet had lived in England long enough to know that whenever anyone talked about ‘The War’, most people were referring to World War II.

Meanwhile Mary continued talking while walking to the giant ornate desk by the windows. “Not a crack of light will show. So when Mycroft comes here incognito, don’t you think it would be logical he would to want to work in here?”

Violet put her torch and gun down on an antique sofa and then looked around. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the massive library. “Fits his profile, this room would feed his need to look and feel powerful. Plus, it’s familiar, more than familiar. It’s his home. Mycroft is just as attached to this place as Sherlock is attached to 221B.”

“Why is he so fond of that manky old flat?” Mary asked as she sat down at the desk and started opening drawers. “He can afford better,” she looked around the expansive library. And then she muttered “A lot better, I think.”

Violet nearly said _Because it’s his_. _I think 221B is the first place that he had lived at that wasn’t with his parents, with Mycroft or a drug den. A place he chose to live how he pleased, not where he was told to stay and be quiet._ But she refrained. She didn’t know how much Mary knew about Sherlock, how much John had told her… and her intuition whispered to her not to completely trust Mary.

So as she walked along the towering book shelves, she only murmured “No idea.”

Tracing the book spines with leather-gloved fingers, Violet slowly walked along the book shelves, looking for anything that could be considered out of the ordinary. But all she saw were books. Large, old books. Violet wouldn’t be surprised if most of them were first-edition, collection pieces. “I wonder if Mycroft hollowed out one of these old books to hide a flash drive or something,” she mused out loud as she got closer to the fireplace. Then she surveyed all the books. “That would be something the asshole would do,” she muttered. “And it’s not like it would be a favorite book of his either, something with sentimental value. He has an eidetic memory, just like Sherlock. He probably would just pick a book at random and be able to remember which one it is five, ten, twenty, fifty years lat-”

“Hello, what do we have here?” Mary interrupted, pulling on a locked drawer.

“Do you really think Mycroft would entrust the world’s secrets to one single locked drawer?” Violet asked, regretting her decision to help Mary immensely.

It also didn’t help she felt guilty about lying to Mary, that she didn’t come with to help her look for her missing daughter, but for information about Sherlock’s deceased adopted brother. She hated the idea of a little baby separated from her parents. But Sherlock had to get out from  underneath Mycroft’s foot and fast.

“Not all the world’s secrets,” Mary rummaged in her rucksack now. “But a locked drawer usually means it contains something someone doesn’t want anyone else to see. At the very least, maybe we can get some dirt on the British Government, something to blackmail him with.”

_Well, looks like Mary is on the same page as I am… kind of…_ Violet inwardly sighed, surveying the room again. “Maybe it’s a key to his secret lair,” Violet started to say but then stopped. “Mary, how old do you think this place is?”

“Mm,” Mary’s voice came from below. She sat on the floor now, picking the drawer lock. “Ancient. 1600’s, at least.”

“OK,” Violet struggled to recall her world history. “OK, so that’s Elizabethan times, right?”

“Not sure, history wasn’t really my best subject,” Mary said just as the lock clicked. “I was better at maths and sciences. And target-practice.”

“You’re a lot of help.”

“As if you know 1600’s American history right off the top of your head,” Mary snapped as she pulled open the drawer and pulled out a black metal box.

“The US didn’t exist in the 1600’s. It was just a bunch of colonies trying not to die of disease and starvation when they weren’t busy killing all the Indians… hold up. OK, wait. Jamestown, Virginia. Virginia was named in honor of Queen Elizabeth, Jamestown was in honor of King James, that was early 1600’s… so… oh fuck it,” and Violet took out her Smartphone and hit the Google app. “Ah, OK, so I was right. Early 1600’s, the persecution of the Catholics in England started up again. November 5, 1605, the Gunpowder Treason happened.”

“This is very enlightening,” Mary grunted as she now worked on the lock of the black box. “But what’s your point?”

Violet couldn’t help sounding smug. “Did you know that Sherlock’s ancestors were suspected Catholic sympathizers?”

“No,” Mary looked bewildered. “Did… did he tell you?”

“No. I did my research,” Violet smirked. “But that’s how their family was ennobled in the first place, they had supported Queen Mary during her rampage before she dropped dead and Elizabeth the Virgin took the throne.”

Mary’s head popped around the corner of the desk. “That actually is interesting. But I’m still not seeing the point?”

Violet started looking very closely at the bookshelves now. “Ever hear of a priest hole?”

Realization slammed into Mary. “A secret room, to hide Catholic priests during the Reformation and the messes that followed when Elizabeth came to power.”

“And not always a room,” Violet started studying the fireplace now. “Sometimes it was an escape tunnel.” She crouched down low and stepped into the fireplace itself. “Mary, when you and John came here last winter to get Sherlock, was the fireplace lit?”

Mary paused, trying to remember. “No.” 

Violet craned her head up. Then reached up with her hand and felt stone. “In a place as big as this, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was more than one priest hole. But this was probably the main one. Makes sense, if a visiting priest was conducting Mass and soldiers came unexpectedly, the priest could make a fast getaway here,” Violet started feeling the back wall of the fireplace now. “And a scullery maid could start a fire the minute-” her hand felt a loose brick. “The priest closed the door again,” she said as she pressed on the brick, hard.

There was a loud clunk and Violet backed up, nearly banging her head on the back of the mantelpiece. Mary, despite herself, put the black box down and made her way towards the fireplace, fascinated. Together they watched the ancient door groan open, the old mechanics of the secret door clanking loudly as the wall turned agonizingly slow, just wide enough for a slender man to slip into.

“An ancient panic room,” Mary breathed. “Brilliant.”

“Mary, bring me the flashlight,” Violet said, peering into the yawning darkness. “A lot of these old priest holes also had places to hide the altar and all other evidence of a Catholic service.”

“How do you know so much about these secret old rooms?”

“I went to Catholic school,” Violet mumbled, rolling her eyes. “Whenever we were close enough to one, that is. My mother insisted. Dad didn’t give a shit.” _But he still made us go until he died…_ Violet recalled then wondered why religion played so heavily on her mind tonight.

She hadn’t stepped foot in a church since her days in New Mexico.

Her mobile whirred just then. Still in her awkward crouch, she reached into her back pocket and wiggled it out. “FUCK,” she burst out, her voice echoing into the priest hole and the chimney.

Mary had been halfway to the antique sofa. “What is it?”

“We have to go,” Violet hit the loose brick again and scurried out of the fireplace as the false wall closed again.

“What? Why? We’ve barely begun!” Mary cried out.

Violet held up her mobile for Mary to read:

Mycroft flying out  
to arrest Mary.  
Wants your help  
Arresting her.  
Get out of the house now – SH

“We have to go,” Violet repeated herself just as the lights flickered and went out.

The windows reverberated as thunder shook the heavens and earth.

**

8 August 2015  
Soho, London  
Saturday night  
8:43 PM

“Sherlock, hurry the hell up,” John couldn’t believe that only a few minutes ago he had been sweating his balls off. Now he shivered uncontrollably as the winds picked up and rain started spattering down. “Storm’s coming.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth as he slid the long hook into the lock. “This one is trickier than the one next door,” meaning Persephone Studios.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, stand aside,” John grabbed Sherlock by the back of his jacket and pulled him away from the door. Then he delivered two powerful kicks and the rotted wood of the door gave way and splintered. “Come on,” John pushed what was left of the door as he entered the building. He waited for Sherlock in the small lobby before entering the next room.

Sherlock sighed, “Not very subtle, John.” He called to his friend, “Kicking in the door like that.”

“Fuck subtle,” John dug into his pocket for the small torch he had brought with him. He clicked it on and shone the narrow beam through the building. He also took out his gun and slid the safety off as Sherlock slipped through the broken door. “Maybe tomorrow, when someone sees the broken door, they’ll call the cops.” 

“Not in this neighborhood,” Sherlock mumbled but then inhaled. “What is that… reek?”

“What… I don’t smell anything.”

But Sherlock’s eyes watered. “You will. When you open that door, you will.”

Too soon, John did.

“Jesus Christ,” John gagged when they entered the main room of the building.

It was the stench of death. There was nothing like it in the world.

“It would be easier for me to deduce the origins of the odor if there was more ambient lighting,” Sherlock fished out his handkerchief and covered his nose with it. “I… I don’t think what we smell is human… I smell…” he lowered the handkerchief and forced himself to inhale again. “Fur. Canine. Domesticated, most likely.”

“What?” John turned to face Sherlock then started shining his small torch again until he spied a control panel. “Come on,” he told Sherlock as he started jogging towards it. Sherlock followed, straining his ears since he couldn’t rely on his eyes.

John reached the panel first. He held the torch in his mouth as he fumbled with the panel door. Finally he wrenched it open and started flipping switches until powerful overhead lights turned on. Both Sherlock and John blinked and rubbed their eyes until they got used to the light.

Both immediately wished they hadn’t.

“Oh my God,” John gasped as he immediately raised his gun again.

“Steady, John,” Sherlock said as he started walking towards the carnage. “Steady.”

A loud thunderclap boomed above then it sounded like gunfire as rain assaulted the old roof of the former textile sweatshop.

Instead of sewing machines and clothing racks, there were empty kennels and chains attached to the support beams. There was a crude pen made from cinder blocks right in the middle of the room. There were also plastic pools, the kind parents buy for infants and toddlers, off to the side for some inexplicable reason. Flies buzzed lazily above these pools. They also floated above the kennels, the bottoms of the cages red and sticky.

“What the bleeding hell is this?” John lowered his gun slightly as they inched closer. John felt his gorge rising as he stepped in a red puddle that could only be blood. “ _Jesus…_ ” he tried to shake the blood off his shoe. “Sherlock?”

“It’s a dog fighting ring,” Sherlock said distastefully. “Honestly. We live in the twenty-first century. We have the cinema and telly and video games. There are plenty of ways to fill the need to witness violence without actually hurting anyone. How is it possible there are Neanderthals who need to witness two dogs fight to the death just for the sake of entertainment?”

“Cowards need to join the military if they get off on violence,” John grumbled as he stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans. “That will cure them right quick.”

Sherlock went to look inside the cinder block pen. He frowned as he saw all the blood and tufts of fur. _Poor things_ he caught himself thinking. Then he thought viciously _It is_ not _sentiment to pity creatures who are mistreated for another’s sick pleasure_ as he imagined his beloved old friend Redbeard or the veteran canine warrior Gladstone in one of these hideous pits. 

The idea made him ill indeed.

Mistreating a dog was the same as… well, mistreating a small child, really.

Suddenly he felt the Earl’s fingers running through his hair and the world tilted. He gripped the cinder blocks for a moment as he waited for the vertigo to end.

Then he whirled around when he heard the unmistakable sound of retching. “John?”

John had his head down and hands on his knees, like he did when Sherlock told him Maisie might be alive. However, this time he said “I’m OK, I’m OK… I took a look in the baby pools.”

“And?” Sherlock said briskly as he shoved the memory of the Earl’s hands in his hair into the darkest, deepest cell of his mind palace.

“Dead dogs,” John staggered away from the pools and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “They put the bait dogs and the loser dogs in the pool when… uh, when the victor is through with them. S’ppose it’s easier to chuck them into the bin by carrying them in a pool. Blood doesn’t slosh all over. But… ah… there was a…”

“Spit it out John, we’ve seen worse.” _Molly’s cat for instance… I don’t believe ‘Agent Margery Jensen’ is what Mycroft thinks she was… could she have been the mole?_

Sherlock filed that theory away for later research and reflection.

Meanwhile John spat out what he had just seen “There was a _half_ of a pug puppy in there. In the pools, along with two other dead dogs…” John swallowed, tasting bile again. He had indeed seen worse. But there was just something pitiful about the puppy that sickened him. “You said that kid’s dog, Edward Rucastle? Didn’t you say it was a pug?”

Sherlock bolted straight to the pools, pulling out his cameras. He snapped pictures and texted the lot to Alex MacDonald, informing her she had just received another anonymous tip that there was an illegal dog fighting ring in Soho. After he texted the address to the sergeant, he informed John. “You found Little Carlo.”

“You think Rucastle had anything to do with this?” John looked around the room in dismay and disgust. “I mean, we’ve established he’s a sick bastard but…”

“It’s his building,” Sherlock intoned. “And the next three right down this street. So who knows what additional horrors we may find there?”

“I hope to God the only thing we find is Evie Payne-Ellis,” John started to saw but a low growl stopped him.

Sherlock heard it too, despite the rain and thunder. 

Both he and John whipped their heads around as the growling got progressively louder.

“ _Please_ ,” John whispered, “Tell me we’re hallucinating. Just like we were at Baskerville.”

“Nope,” Sherlock started to back away from the growling very slowly. He reached for John and grabbed him by the hem of his shirt. Tugging gently on John’s shirt, he added, “We now just found Big Carlo, I do believe.”

John also started backing off slowly as well. He could feel his heart pounding and his mouth went completely dry. His stomach churned.

“I think he found us, actually,” John’s voice shook.

But his hands were completely steady. 

 “Violet said,” Sherlock said _sotto voce_ as he and John continued to inch their way towards the door. “That during her interview, Toller had said the security system hadn’t been installed yet. However this morning, he said he was going to set the security system. I think…”

A giant, fawn colored hound entered the room. His hackles were up, his teeth were bared.

John swallowed hard.

“… I think this is his new security system,” Sherlock whispered.

“Great security system,” John pointed the gun at the dog’s head.

The enormous dog crept closer and closer to the detective and the doctor. He kept his body low to ground, as if he intended to leap up and attack at the slightest provocation.

“Dog’s been abused,” Sherlock whispered as the dog continued to advance while Sherlock and John continued to back-pedal. “He’s obviously malnourished. His fur is falling out in clumps and look at his ribs…”

“I’m too busy looking at his _teeth_ , Sherlock,” John hissed.

Growl after growl rumbled from the dog’s throat. He continued to advance.

“He could be ill too. Lymphoma is a common ailment with the bullmastiff breed.”

“Might be a mercy to put him down then,” John said, freezing in his tracks.

Sherlock stopped as well. “Do it.” 

Then it thundered again, even louder than before.  

Then the power went out.

Then the dog attacked.

**

8 August 2015  
En flight to Winterbourne-on-Avon  
Saturday night  
8:56 PM

“Sir!” The pilot’s voice crackled in Mycroft’s ear. “We can’t keep flying in these conditions.”

Mycroft nodded. They had left London before the storm hit and had been steadily flying ahead of the thunderheads rolling in. But soon they would have to turn west and fly straight into it to get to his childhood home.

He had no intention of dying a stupid death. He considered flying into an electrical storm in a tin can with propellers a stupid death.

“Set her down as soon as you can,” he said into the microphone even though the pilot was right next to him. The whirring propellers and massive engine made it impossible to hear anything without headphones. “Have transportation ready for me.”

A few minutes later, the pilot landed the black helicopter on the driveway of an abandoned farm twenty minutes east of his childhood home. A black Range Rover waited for him.

So did a handsome black man Violet knew as Collins, Billy Wiggins knew as Mitty and Mycroft knew as “Agent Mitton, status update.”

Mycroft had to yell his order due to an eardrum-shatteringly loud blast of thunder.  He popped open his umbrella as huge drops of rain started pelting down. His black raincoat blew around him as if imitating his little brother’s Belstaff.

“Perimeter is set up, welcoming party is five minutes out,” Mitton shouted as he opened the passenger side door for Mycroft. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“Do not underestimate these women,” Mycroft said before climbing into the vehicle. “They have John Watson and Sherlock Holmes wrapped around their little fingers. Charles Augustus Magnussen and Jack Woodley also underestimated AGRA and Agent Hunter as well. Both of those men are dead now.”

The firmament lit up, silver and purplish as lightning crisscrossed the skies. Then the thunder rolled again and again.

Mitton sprinted around the vehicle and got into the driver’s side. The rain got heavier as they drove down the driveway to the main motorway back to the Holmes Estates. Mycroft crossed his thin arms. “Your welcome party, have they been properly briefed about-”

“The historical significance of the castle, the priceless artifacts and artwork and to take the women alive, if possible,” Mitton said calmly. “Can’t guarantee the last bit. Especially if they come at us guns blazing.”

“I would prefer Agent Hunter to be taken alive if possible. She possesses useful information. However if she does indeed become collateral damage, so be it,” Mycroft said coldly as Mitton began speeding. “But it is imperative that AGRA is taken _alive_.”

“We know,” Mitton said. “And I understand why. I’m the one who got the intel about the double-hit, Mr. Holmes, if you recall.”

“Gold star for you,” Mycroft said acidly.

Mitton ignored the barb. “We’ll get her, sir. Alive. You have my word.”

“You’re a spy and you expect me to trust _your word_ ,” Mycroft examined his nails. “Do I look like a rookie fresh from training?” He turned his dark, brown-almost-black eyes onto Mitton. “I do not require _your word_. I just need you and your people to do their jobs.”

“Yes sir,” Mitton said, not one bit offended.

Ordinarily he might have been tempted to take a cold fish as condescending and supercilious as  him down a peg or two.

But there were  some people in this world you just didn’t cross. Mycroft Holmes was one of them.

_And the dumb shits of London are scared of_ Moriarty, he thought, amused. _Eejits_.

**

8 August 2015  
The Holmes Estates  
Saturday night  
9:01 PM

“Why isn’t it starting?” Violet cried as Mary twisted the ignition key again.

Nothing.

“I don’t know,” Mary said with gritted teeth. Then she reached over Violet’s lap and opened the glove compartment. She pulled out a pamphlet and held out her mobile, using the light of the display screen as a torch. “ _Fuck._ ”

“What?” Violet demanded, a bit startled. She had never heard Mary Morstan Watson cuss before… but then, she wasn’t dealing with Mary Morstan Watson anymore, was she?

“This vehicle has LoJack,” she crumpled the pamphlet into a ball. “The engine’s been disabled.”

“You didn’t check first  whether or not there was a GPS locator on this car?” Violet cried out, “Mary, what the literal hell?”  

“I didn’t check because _it’s Sherlock’s_ vehicle.” Mary snapped as lightning crackled above.

“It’s… what? How did you know tha-” but Violet’s next words were drowned out by a deafening clap of thunder.

Then both women saw lights in the distance. Tiny pinpricks of light, coming closer.

Headlights.

“Oh shit,” Violet breathed.

“We have to make a run for it,” Mary reached for her rucksack then pulled out her gun.

“On foot? No way. We won’t make it, not in this,” Violet pointed at the downpour. “And this is where Mycroft _grew up_. He knows every nook and cranny of the grounds, the woods and the town. If we run, we’re good as dead.” Violet pushed her car door back open and got out, ignoring the rain. “Come on,” she shouted at Mary as she reached for her own rucksack.

“Where?”

“Back in the house, I have an idea, it’s crazy, but it’s the only shot we’ve got, _now come on,_ ” Violet ordered, using a tone of voice she hadn’t used in years.

Her “I am a Federal Agent” voice.

Swearing under her breath, Mary swung the rucksack back onto her back again and followed Violet in the pouring rain. She handed her gun to Violet so she could unlock the door again. Violet, against her better judgment, gave Mary her gun back. Both women ran inside.

“Back to the library,” Violet gasped then broke into a full run as the thunder roared and the winds started to howl. “ _Come on!_ ”

By now, Mary had cottoned on to exactly what Violet’s “plan” was and she had thoroughly agreed with Violet: it _was_ crazy. Barking mad, actually.

And it was the only shot they had.

So she ran next to Violet, sprinting now.

When they were inside the library again and Violet was crawling inside the fireplace, Mary asked in a whisper, “We don’t know if there’s an escape tunnel for sure.”

“Then we hide in here,” Violet said grimly, finding the brick again. “And we wait Mycroft out,” she added as the secret door swung open again. She crept into the gloom then stuck her hand out, waving Mary to hurry up.

Mary darted into the priest hole. Violet fumbled around the door and found the lever that would close the door. The door groaned shut agonizingly slowly. Everything became pitch black.

Deprived of sight, Violet started fumbling around the door again, muttering, “I need light.”

Mary took out her mobile and shone the light onto the door. Violet found the latch and swung it down, locking the door from the inside.

“That won’t hold them off forever,” Mary whispered, clicking the light off again.

“Assuming they find us,” Violet breathed.

“Mycroft might. He must know about _this_.”

“Mycroft’s arrogant. He thinks he’s above everyone else because of his staggering intellect. He considers normal people little better than goldfish. He thinks we wouldn’t be _smart_ enough to find the priest hole. Come on,” Violet whispered, sliding her hands along the wall to guide herself. “Let’s not wait for them to find us.”

She and Mary crept along in blackness, the walls damp and cool. The only sounds were the soft crunch of grit and dirt under their soft-soled boots. Violet wished like hell she could see where she was going, but she wanted to put some distance between themselves and the secret door. She felt pretty confident they were indeed in a very old escape tunnel.

However, that bit of confidence didn’t detract from how she felt completely and totally scared shitless.

They had to crouch as they walked. Violet had forgotten how people were shorter back in Elizabethan times. _I think they must have actually been dwarves_ she thought miserably, her back aching. Her thigh muscles and calves burned. She had lost complete track of time creeping through the tunnel. They could have walked a mile or a foot, she couldn’t tell. Her eyes strained to see even though there was no light. But neither woman dared to take out her  mobile or torch again. No matter how badly they wanted to see, they didn’t want to risk being seen either. 

So Violet and Mary continued their journey blindly. Violet groped at the wall, noting how it slowly changed from stone to something smoother and less damp… some sort of plaster or dry-walling. _Mycroft must have made some improvements._

Violet struggled to keep her terror at bay, to prevent it from paralyzing her. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. But the hair on her arms stood straight up anyway. Her heart raced. She had that creepy-crawly feeling that something (or something) was watching her as she clumsily walked along the walls of the tunnel. She resolutely told herself this was _not_ the time to think about all the horror movies that start with two stupid women getting lost in the dark alone…

_I would sell my soul for some night-vision goggles right now…_

Suddenly Mary’s voice was right in her ear. “Look, is that a light?”

Violet nodded then remembered Mary couldn’t see her. “Yeah, come on,” she said, her voice barely louder than a sigh.

They crept towards the slivers of light, shining down from above. As they got closer, they saw that it was some sort of grate. Locked from their side.

No rain was streaming in from the grate. The light was bright, obviously fluorescent. Violet knew the exit had to be in some sort of building, but what exactly? She inhaled. _Not a barn, I don’t smell hay or horse shit…_ she stood underneath the grate, frowning.

“All clear?” a deep, unfamiliar masculine voice boomed.

Violet scrambled from the grate and slammed her back against the tunnel wall, heart pounding. Mary crouched right next to her, holding her gun to her chest, finger on the trigger. Violet put her finger to her lips. Mary nodded. They both looked up.

“All clear,” another voice had chimed in.

The women could see boot soles standing on the grate now. A beam of light from his torch shone down the grate. Both Mary and Violet inched away from the light. _Like roaches_ , Violet miserably realized but felt relief when the torch light was clicked off.

“Clear,” announced another voice.

“Right, you and you, stay here. One inside, one outside at the door. You, you and you. With me,” said the first voice, very authoritatively. Soon there was the sound of marching boots and a door opening, then slamming shut.  

Mary crept out this time, crouching beneath the grate. She holstered her gun before standing on her tiptoes. She fumbled with the lock on the grate.

Violet pressed her lips tight together, her mouth and throat completely dry. She cringed, expecting the grate to creak loudly when Mary lifted it up. But it made no sound at all.

Mary looked at Violet and nodded. _I’ve got this._

“Don’t kill him,” Violet whispered.

Mary rolled her eyes and raised the grate again, peeking out. Then she slowly lifted the grate all the way up, but without letting it fall with a slam. She pulled herself up and out.

Violet then heard a grunt and a thud.

Then Mary said quietly but not quite in a whisper, “Come on.”

_Fuck_ Violet thought but she pulled herself out of the tunnel.

Once out of the tunnel, she took a quick look around and realized she was in a garage. Violet then realized, belatedly, that the power must have been restored. The bright overhead lights seemed harsh after the gloom of the tunnels

Violet silently congratulated Mycroft, recognizing the simplicity and the genius of his plan. He must have built this garage over the original exit of the tunnel. The tunnel takes him straight to his escape vehicles. A Range Rover, a boring non-descript sedan, a couple of bicycles and a pair of motorcycles that reminded Violet of the dirt bikes she and Michael had ridden for fun when they had lived with their grandmother on her farm.

Mary knelt over an unconscious young man, using his own handcuffs to secure him. Violet perceived that his black uniform was definitely military in origin, but for the life of her, she couldn’t place what branch of service he had to be in.

Numbly, she realized she wasn’t supposed to know. _He’s either MI-6 or HMRSS. Wonderful. Mycroft has brought out the big guns._

“We need to take out the other one,” Mary said grimly, “Guarding the door.”

“How did you take out this one?”

She mimed a karate strike. “Hit him in the carotid artery. Dropped like a stone.”

“Interesting there isn’t any protective padding there.”

“These lot don’t think anyone can get close enough to them for hand-to-hand combat,” Mary said dismissively. 

Violet also snorted, “Amateurs.” The two allies exchanged a quick, tense grin then Violet said, “OK, so I’m open to suggestions on how to get the hell out of here.” 

Mary looked around, desperately. Then her eyes locked on the dirt bikes. “You know how to ride motorcycles, yes?”

“Yeah…” Violet said warily. Mary had seen her drive off on the Yamaha after they had finished “interrogating” Anthea.

“I have an idea,” Mary said.

“Oh good, because your other ideas have been awesome,” Violet snapped but followed Mary anyway. What choice did she have, really?

A few minutes later, the women placed themselves in position. Mary whistled sharply.

Soon, the guard hustled in, pointing his M-16. “Holy shit,” he didn’t even bother to hide his surprise when he saw Mary in the middle of the garage, standing right over his comrade-in-arms prone body.

“I’m surrendering,” Mary said simply, putting her hands on her head.

 The solider made his mistake. So excited by the prospect of being the one to apprehend AGRA, he entered the garage alone. He also entered without checking his blind spot, which was what Mary had counted on. 

Violet slipped out of the shadows and stood behind the young man. “Stop,” she used her “Federal Agent” voice again. The barrel of her gun was snug against the man’s neck.

“You won’t shoot me,” the man said arrogantly.

“No,” Violet said agreeably as Mary took out her gun and pointed it at his face, advancing on him. “But she will.”

He dropped to his knees, put his weapon down and put his hands on his head. Mary pistol-whipped him like she had Magnussen that fateful night, and the solider crumpled at her feet. Blood trickled through his shattered nose.

“Phase Two, then,” Mary said, going to retrieve the black motorcycle helmets hanging on the garage walls.

A few minutes later, the side door opened up and a dirt bike came roaring out of the garage.

“Sir, sir, bird in flight! Bird in flight!” a distressed message crackled across the secure radio.

Mycroft’s brows lifted as Mitton cursed and snatched up the CB. “Do not fire unless you can ID!” Mitton ordered.

“Can’t ID sir, visibility’s shit with the storm. But she’s on a motorcycle.”

“That’s Hunter, let her go,” Mycroft barked. “She’ll make a beeline back to 221B, I’ll deal with her myself later,” he added darkly then snapped at Mitton: “AGRA is priority. Apprehend AGRA.”

Mary and Violet also had counted on that.

So while a helmeted Mary sped down the long driveway, passing military vehicles, praying to God she wouldn’t wipe out on the slick, wet roads, Violet hid quietly in the picturesque trees observing the chaos caused by the wicked weather and Mary’s flamboyant distraction. She had slipped out of the garage just as Mary barreled straight towards the soldiers milling around the driveway and lawns.

Technology is nice, but sometimes, all that is required is a good sleight-of-hand trick.

Watching the soldiers filing into the garage, guns raised, Violet made her move.

Before letting Mary out of the garage, they had stripped the smaller soldier of his trousers, jacket, bullet-resistant vest, hat, belt and guns.

With her hair tucked up in the black military beret and carrying an M-16, Violet blended in just enough that she became part of the scenery. True, she wouldn’t be able to march in any military parades without anyone noticing that she wasn’t supposed to be there. But the combination of the storm and “Hunter’s” daring escape was just enough of a distraction for Violet to jog away from the garage towards an idling black SUV, one of seemingly “civilian” vehicles that had accompanied the Humvees and military jeeps that had pulled onto the pristine property.

Violet dipped her head down so the driver wouldn’t immediately notice she lacked an Adam’s apple. She rapped on the window with her knuckles. When the door opened, Violet pointed the M-16 at the driver’s face, finger on the trigger.

She had no idea how the weapon worked. She didn’t even know if the safety was on or off.

But he didn’t need to know that.

“Get out,” she snapped, her voice decidedly female. And American.

Meanwhile, as Mitton started speeding towards the Holmes estates again, another panicked announcement crackled through the secure radio. “AGRA’s on the bike, AGRA’s on the bike.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you not to underestimate these women. I hold you personally responsible for this failure,” he informed Mitton.

Mitton felt his bowels turn to liquid as he tried to regain control of the situation. “Where’s Hunter?” he shouted into his radio.

But all they had to do was look up and see headlights in the distance.

Mycroft snatched the CB from Mitton and pressed the Talk button. “Violet, I know you can hear me. Pull over.”

Violet indeed heard Mycroft’s frigid voice. She saw their headlights coming towards her just as surely as they saw hers.

So she did something she hadn’t done in nearly eight years.

She moved the SUV into the right lane.

“What is she doing?” Mitton’s bemused question was nearly drowned out by a clap of thunder.

“I believe the Americans call it ‘playing chicken’,” Mycroft tightened his seatbelt then ordered Mitton, “Accelerate.”

“WHAT?”

“Do it.”

“Goddammit,” Violet stepped on the gas when Mycroft’s headlights came closer.

“She’s not going to swerve,” Mitton yelled at Mycroft.

“Yes, she will,” Mycroft said just as he heard his baby brother’s voice in his head.

_Nope_. 

Meanwhile, Violet’s entire body was tensing up for impact. She knew she wouldn’t be able to control the vehicle if she swerved, she was going too fast. Speed combined with the rain and the slick roads risked hydroplaning and rolling the vehicle.

The only way out was through.

So she pressed down on the gas pedal. “Mycroft, don’t _do_ this, don’t _do_ this…” she moaned.

Too soon she could see the outlines of two men sitting inside the approaching vehicle. 

Violet involuntarily made a sound that was a cross between a scream and a sob.

Lightning flashed…

… and Mycroft’s vehicle veered at the last possible second as the thunder boomed. Violet sucked in a loud, surprised breath and lifted her foot off the gas pedal. She let her SUV slow down naturally while she held the steering wheel in a death grip. Meanwhile, in horror, she watched in the wing-mirror as Mycroft’s vehicle skidded out of control, over-corrected then slammed into the ditch, toppling over onto its side.

Finally Violet carefully applied her brakes and her vehicle came to a slow, safe stop. Her entire body shook as if her bones were made from jelly. She whirled around in her seat, breathing shallowly, searching for signs of life in the tipped-over Range Rover. _How fast were we going that a fucking_ Range Rover _rolled? Those things are tanks._ She had been too focussed on controlling her own vehicle to pay attention to the speedometer.

When she noticed no one was crawling out of the Range Rover, Violet put her hand on the gear-shift, intending to turn around and… and do what exactly?

Violet frowned as her heart rate slowed down.

_These men were trying to kill me._

And… if Mycroft was dying or even already dead...

_Then I’m on the first flight out of England_ , Violet viciously decided.

_And I’m bringing Sherlock with me._

As much as she hated Mycroft, she also knew she needed him alive in order to protect Sherlock. If she wanted Mycroft dead, she would have done it herself, years ago. She just wanted to be able to blackmail him so he’d stop using Sherlock’s genius in order to advance his own dirty political schemes. But she had wanted him alive in order to keep his carefully constructed protections in place as well.

Violet knew that, if Mycroft really was dead, his enemies would come after Sherlock for Magnussen’s murder. Just so they could lock him up somewhere and throw away the key.

_Or worse,_ she thought as she drove away from the wreck. Probably worse… they would want to tie up the last string. Eliminate the last threat to their interests. 

Guiltily, she guessed what she was doing technically was murder, if the men inside were indeed dying from their injuries and she wasn’t stopping to help them. She also knew that no matter what, Mycroft was still Sherlock’s brother and that he also had parents who loved him as well.

_But this is my only chance to get out,_ she thought desperately as she headed towards Winterbourne-on-Avon, to where she and Mary had decided to meet. _Mycroft should have just left me alone. Or he should have helped clear my name all those years ago when the Earl got my team burned because I blew Jack’s cover. Or he could have done something last fucking March even. He knows I’m innocent but he won’t lift a goddamn finger to help me go home. Just like how he never helped Sherlock when he needed him the most…_

_Well, fuck him. If he is dead, I hope he enjoys hell. And I’m not leaving Sherlock behind to deal with the coming shit storm either. Somehow, someway, I’ll convince him to leave London. His first and strongest protest will be that he won’t leave John. But if we have to drag the Watsons along in order to save Sherlock so be it. But I’m not_ Mycroft _. I’m not abandoning him._

A righteous fury had built up in Violet just as the storm finally dissipated. The rain had nearly stopped by the time Violet pulled up behind the abandoned cinema in Winterbourne-on-Avon.

Mary sat in the dark on top of the dirt bike, waiting for her.

As Violet hopped out of the SUV, Mary whispered, “No one locks their doors in this village.”

“Good,” Violet grunted. “I hope you know how to hot-wire a car. They’ll be looking for this one.”

**

8 August 2015  
Soho, London  
Earlier that Saturday night  
8:44 PM

John pulled the trigger seconds after the lights went out. Vainly he hoped he had maybe hit the beast. But before he could finish that thought, he felt giant paws on his chest. The gun had fallen from his hand, clattering to the dirty, sticky floor. He yelled as he felt the dog’s hot, stinking breath in his face. He tried to push the dog off of him, but he lost his footing and toppled backwards, the dog pinning him.

Instinctively he held his arms up and his head down, protecting his face and neck. He yelled again, this time in shock and pain as he felt the dog’s front teeth scraping against his upper arm, tearing cloth and skin. John tried to curl up in the fetal position while shouting at Sherlock. _Run… help… run for help…_ all the words jumbled together as John fought for his life.

_This is how Jack Woodley died_ , he remembered and panic threatened to take over as rounded teeth scraped his arm again.

Then there was a sharp, surprised yip and the weight of the dog disappeared.

Sherlock had hit the beast with _something_. John couldn’t tell with what, it was too ruddy dark. But he could distinctly hear Sherlock commanding him: “John, _run_.”

John tried to get up, but he had landed wrong when the big dog had landed on him. His ankle would not support his weight. _No, no, no, not now, not fucking now!_ He wasn’t sure if he had just rolled his ankle or sprained it good and proper but there was no time for a proper diagnosis. He tried and tried to get up but his leg kept buckling underneath him, as if the bone and muscle had been replaced with rubber.

But when the lightning had flashed again, he saw his gun and so he dove for it.

Just as the damned dog dove for him. Again.

“ _John!_ ”

But Sherlock’s warning came too late and John returned to the World of Hurt. 

The bites on his upper arms seemed to be flesh wounds, painful but nothing seriou. But when the bullmastiff bit down on John’s calf, he meant business this time. This time the dog’s front and back teeth sank through John’s jeans and into his leg.  

John’s world shrank down to pain. Hot, stinging, gut-wrenching agony as the dog’s teeth shredded flesh and muscle. When the dog had started shaking his head, with John’s calf firmly clasped in his jaw, John weakly wondered if his fibula was going to snap from the pressure, maybe even the tibia.

John then dimly registered hearing a loud _thunk_. Then the pressure was released from his leg as the dog emitted another high pitched yelp. The lights suddenly flickered back on and there was another solid _thunk_ as Sherlock hit the dog on the rump with a metal shovel.

“Good boy,” Sherlock cooed dangerously as the growling, slobbering dog turned his attention back towards him, away from John. His inconsistent irises greenish-gold in this light, he narrowed his eyes at the dog. He clenched his teeth tightly together as well, making his face look positively feral. As he coaxed the dog away from John, he purred, “Who’s a _good_ boy?”

_Not that dog_ , John thought numbly, risking a peek at his shredded leg. Upon seeing the blood pumping out of him, he didn’t even have the energy to swear. He just bit his lip hard and reached for his gun, hoping his aim would be good enough to kill that bastard mutt.

John gripped the gun and felt a wave of relief, quickly followed by a wave of despair.

He held his gun in his right hand. He wasn’t right-handed.

Blood oozed down his left upper arm. He switched hands and discovered to his dismay he could barely lift his left arm. More pain accompanied that action.

_This is not just a flesh wound…_

Helplessly, he watched Sherlock bait the enormous hound. John had been intimidated by the Hound of Baskerville and by Gladstone, but this dog defied explanation. The monster had to have been fed steroids when he was a puppy.

John then saw how the dog’s legs stiffened and how his hackles rose as he stared Sherlock down. Then the beast started growling savagely again.

In a complete panic now, he cried out, “ _Sherlock!_ ” 

Then the dog lunged.

Sherlock was ready for him, having deduced when the dog was going to attack before John had. Sherlock swung the shovel with all his might, the scoop hitting the dog solidly in his jowls. A not-unpleasant ringing sound echoed through the warehouse.

The dog fell then staggered to his feet and immediately stumbled. He walked around in a circle, completely stunned.

It would have been amusing, had his muzzle had not been coated with John’s blood.

The dog wobbled on his legs, his head cocked to the side, as if contemplating another go as Sherlock gripped the shovel tightly in his gloved hands (… _shovel, where’d he find a shovel?_ John wondered, a bit stunned himself …). Sherlock planted his feet solidly beneath him, waiting for the dog to make another attempt to attack. But the dog tucked his tail under and slunk off backwards, his black eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face as growl after growl rumbled from his throat. The rafters shook again as it thundered outside. Finally the dog darted off.

“Sherlock!” John gasped when the dog had retreated far away enough where he felt safe enough to turn tail and run.

At the sound of his name, Sherlock had immediately dropped the shovel and ran to John. John held the gun by the barrel, the butt facing Sherlock. “Take it,” he rasped, feeling extraordinarily light-headed by this point. “I can’t… m’left arm’s messed up. Take it and put him down before he attacks someone else…”

Sherlock had taken the gun, but tucked it into the back of his trousers. “No time,” he muttered, his eyes scrutinizing John’s battered body faster than any medical scanner. “We need to get you to hospital. Fast.” Sherlock fished his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. “Best I can do at this point. This will hurt,” he said in his usual, detached tones.

“What will hurt?”

Sherlock folded the snowy white handkerchief into a square and pressed it against John’s arm. Hard.

“ _FUCK!_ ”

“Apply pressure,” Sherlock grabbed John’s right hand and slammed it against the bleeding wound.

“ _JesusfuckingchristSherlock_.” Tears sprang to John’s eyes.

Then he felt Sherlock’s hands fumbling around his… waistband? _Undoing his belt?_

_“What are you doing?”_

“I need your belt to make a tourniquet for your leg, John. _Obviously_.”

“Oh, people are going to _talk_.”

“They already do,” Sherlock said unhelpfully as he pulled John’s belt out of the jeans’ loops.

“Wonderful. Just… terrific.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and yes, with some of the things my imagination has produced, I've wondered from time to time if there's something wrong with me.
> 
> But I do strongly believe that anyone who mistreats animals and children should be kicked in the throat. Repeatedly.


	21. Positively Medieval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...Violet noticed a familiar –looking car parked kitty-corner across from 221 Baker Street. Pretending to be checking the time, Violet pulled out her Smartphone and thumbed through her photo gallery, searching for a picture until-
> 
> “Son-of-a-bitch,” she seethed, looking at a photograph of a number plate on her mobile then looking up at the same number plate on the car parked feet away from her.
> 
> Victor, what the hell are you doing here? She fumed. Not dealing with your bullshit tonight..."
> 
>  
> 
> Just when Violet thought things couldn't get worse... they get worse. 
> 
> Also, Sherlock has an epiphany regarding the cases...

Chapter Twenty-One: Positively Medieval

9 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Sunday morning   
2:37 AM

“John, I’m sorry.”

During the past five years John had known Sherlock (minus the two years for the Great Hiatus, of course), he had heard Sherlock say those words perhaps a grand total of three times.

Tonight, he must have heard them at least three hundred times. And was probably going to hear them again at least another three hundred times before the sun rose.

_And they didn’t even give me the_ good _fucking pain-killers,_ John fumed as he let Sherlock help him out of the cab. [_Paracetamol_](http://drugs.webmd.boots.com/drugs/drug-356-paracetamol.aspx?drugid=356&drugname=paracetamol&istictac=false) _and_[ _ibuprofen_](http://drugs.webmd.boots.com/drugs/drug-242-ibuprofen.aspx?drugid=242&drugname=ibuprofen&istictac=false) _… like those are going to do fuck-all._

John, to sum it up, was a mess.

But at least the pain in his leg wasn’t psychosomatic this time. Silver lining. 

After securing the tourniquet, Sherlock had lifted John up and half-carried, half-dragged John out of that hell hole of a warehouse. As they stumbled out of the abandoned building and into the storm, John knew he’d have one more nightmare to add his PTSD repertoire now.

_Oh, good, something to look forward to tonight_ … he had thought miserably as the rain beat down on the pair of them. Sherlock, relying on his powerful memory, had skillfully woven his way through the darkened alleys and gotten them back onto the brightly lit city streets and pavements.

John, like so many others, always underestimated Sherlock’s strength. However, John also knew the extent of Sherlock’s wounds after The Shooting and suspected many other injuries had taken their toll on the detective. He was rather surprised Sherlock’s strength had returned so relatively quickly. Or at least, Sherlock had regained strength enough to haul his sorry arse out of that bloody (literally bloody) warehouse and get them onto a main road.

With John clinging to him like a spider monkey, Sherlock had looked around desperately. The rain had still been pouring down, making it difficult to see. He then fumbled with his mobile and tucked it between his ear and shoulder, praying the rain wouldn’t damage it. Then the best he could, he raised his free hand and cried out “Taxi!” 

Fortunately, there are still kind and decent people roaming this earth. A gray-haired man and his silvery-haired wife had just walked out of a restaurant and saw Sherlock desperately hailing a cab, while hanging on to John and calling 999 on his mobile all at the same time. They also had perceived that John clearly was in bad shape, and not just from a night of pub-crawling.

“Sir? Sir?” the old man had tentatively tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. Seeing Sherlock’s frantic face, he asked more authoritatively, “How can we help?” as he held his umbrella over John and Sherlock instead of himself and his wife.

“Oh he’s bleeding!” his wife exclaimed, her fancy hairdo deteriorating in the rain. “We’ll drive you to the A&E. There’s one close by.”

John could have kissed them both, if he hadn’t been in so much goddamn fucking pain.

He thought being shot had been bad.

He thought the dog bites had been brutal.

He thought the cleansing and disinfection of his wounds had been god-awful. And the suturing to close up the bigger, ragged punctures in his arm and calf had not been a picnic either. 

But he had soldiered through it. He thought he had maintained his dignity remarkably well, despite being in enormous amounts of pain, feeling completely exhausted and being soaked to the bone. Or to be more accurate, what clothes he had left were sopping wet. They had cut  the right leg of his jeans away to treat  his torn-up calf quickly. His shirt had been more or less shredded so they just cut that away altogether.

However, the longer he had lain on the hospital gurney, the more and more unsettled he had felt. On top of the exhaustion, he had started shivering. The air conditioning was on full blast in the hospital. The nurse had let him remove what was left of his jeans and change into a paper-thin hospital gown after the doctor had finished suturing his leg. Plus (insult to injury) his pants and socks had still been uncomfortably damp. So he had swallowed his pride and called feebly to Sherlock to bring him a blanket.

As Sherlock draped a bright orange shock blanket over him, a cold and miserable John had asked in a raspy whisper: “What is taking them so long? We’ve been here for hours. Why haven’t I been discharged? I’m exhausted. I want to get out of here.”

“The attending physician is consulting with a colleague about whether or not it is necessary to begin a series of rabies injections.”

Even though Sherlock hadn’t said it out loud, John could hear the snotty _Obviously_ quite clearly _._

“Oh… _of course_ they would,” John had then screwed his eyes shut and quietly began an internal dialogue. Reminded himself that yes, rabies injections are a medical necessity because they didn’t know where the dog was. _Sherlock had said the dog looked ill. Who knows what else could have been wrong with it? Even though rabies is extremely rare in the UK, that doesn’t mean it’s not impossible to contract the disease._ You know this _. You’re a doctor and you’re also a war veteran. You’ve been through worse, you’ve seen worse and rabies injections aren’t the horror they used to be. It’s not twenty-one jabs in the gut anymore so suck it up._    

But when the nurse had brought in not only the rabies serum, but also a vial for a tetanus booster as well, John’s inner child nearly took over. _No thanks. Think I’d rather risk foaming at the mouth and lockjaw at the same time rather than  get stabbed like a pincushion._  

“Now that’s done,” the nurse had said a bit too cheerfully after the final injection, “We’ll take you now to get a scan of your ankle.”

“My… ankle?” Wildly he had looked at Sherlock. “But… but…it’s just sprained.”

_Get me out of here,_ he had silently pleaded with Sherlock.

“He’s right,” Sherlock had glowered at the nurse. “If you used your eyes more and mouth less, you would obviously see that the swelling clearly indicates a sprain, not a break.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Home, _no one_ can tell if it’s a break or sprain by just looking at it.”

Sherlock had visibly bridled when the nurse mispronounced his last name. “It’s sprained.”

“Well, the doctor wants a quick x-ray anyway just to be sure,” the nurse had huffed.

“ _I_ am a doctor. It’s not broken,” John had interrupted. “It just needs ice and elevation!”

“Are you sure you didn’t also hit your head during the attack, Mr. Whitson?”

“NO. I DIDN’T HIT MY HEAD. I _AM_ A DOCTOR AND IT’S WATSON. _DOCTOR_ WATSON!”

John had finally snapped.  And that’s when Sherlock had started with the “I’m sorry’s”.

But at least Sherlock had been able to nick a pair of scrubs while John was getting the x-ray that confirmed that his ankle was most definitely not broken. John supposed he should feel grateful that he didn’t go home wearing a horrid old hospital gown with his backside flashing everyone. 

Now, in front of 221B Baker Street, John leaned heavily against Sherlock, spent and sore. He gripped the shock blanket (that Sherlock had also stolen from the A&E) the same way an old lady clutches at her shawl. He did not want to take another step. But Sherlock wrapped his long arms around him and said, “Come along, John, we’re almost there.”

_Until the fucking staircase_ , John thought miserably as he let Sherlock guide him towards the familiar old door as if he were a crippled geriatric.

But instead of up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock guided John towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Figured you may not wish to tackle a flight of stairs tonight,” Sherlock muttered as he unlocked her door. Sensing instead of seeing John’s confused look, he explained why he had a spare key to their landlady’s home.  “I water Mrs. Hudson’s orchids when she goes on holiday.”

“Oh of course you do,” John snarled as he limped towards Mrs. Hudson’s sofa, still leaning on Sherlock. “Can’t be arsed to pick up the milk, but you remember to water _her_ fucking flowers.”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“No,” John let go of Sherlock in order to sink down into Mrs. Hudson’s sinfully cushiony sofa, but the room started spinning. He grasped Sherlock’s upper arms to stop from swaying. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m really in a lot of pain and everything… everything’s just…”

He shook his head, couldn’t think of an elegant way of finishing his thoughts.

“… just… so…. _fucked up_ right now.”

“I know, John, I know,” Sherlock crooned as he eased John down onto the sofa. “I’m sor-”

“Yeah, I know. You’re sorry.” John closed his eyes as he let Sherlock prop his bitten and sprained leg onto a footstool. 

After a beat, Sherlock added, a bit sulkily, “I really am, you know.”

John’s eyes popped open again. He opened his mouth to bawl at Sherlock, _For God’s sake, you arrogant prick. It’s not always about_ you!

But John had opened his eyes just in time to see that split-second flash of hurt cross Sherlock’s face. The same one he had witnessed at the Bank of England in that cock Sebastian Wilkes’ office. _We all hated him…_

John rarely saw behind the egotistical, superior mask Sherlock usually wore. Sherlock’s heroic and noble actions always contradicted his cruel, biting words. But John never really could tell what the Great Detective was thinking. Or feeling. However, in that split-second, John knew exactly what was going through his best friend’s mind.

_Why is he angry? I saved him from the dog and got him to the A &E. I didn’t make him climb the stairs to 221B. I didn’t want him to get hurt, never wanted him to get hurt and I apologized. I’m trying to help but I’m still doing something Not Good. What am I doing_ wrong?

What had Mycroft said about Sherlock years ago? _The brain of a scientist or a philosopher yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?_  

 At that time John had said he didn’t know. Now he did.

_He has the simple, trusting heart of a child_. John thought. There was just something endearingly pure and heartrending about Sherlock’s temperament, if one subtracted the staggering genius from it, of course. The defensive detachment camouflaged Sherlock’s intense curiosity about everything and everyone. The eccentricity and fierce intelligence helped him keep those would do him harm or distract him from his precious Work well away from him. He had learned the hard way how necessary it was to hide his greatest vulnerability away from the world. Bury it under layers of icy detachment, odd mannerisms and strange hobbies.

But if one could get past the personality quirks, endure the barbed remarks and brutally honest-deductions, well…

John hadn’t quite understood what the definition of “unconditional” really meant until he had moved into 221B.

Love. Friendship. Acceptance. All of it. Unconditional.

He felt a tug pulling at his lips, despite his throbbing leg and aching arm.

What had Violet called it, during one of their marathon late-night telephone conversations?

_His dyslexic heart,_ she had said once.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” John said. He experienced a small flare of self-satisfaction seeing Sherlock’s blue-green-gold eyes widen in surprise at John deducing him instead of the other way around. “I just feel bloody awful. My arm hurts. My leg hurts. My arse hurts from the tetanus jabs,” John smiled self-depreciatingly. “And we didn’t find Evie.”

He felt tears welling in his eyes again. This time it wasn’t from physical pain.

“Her parents must be frantic,” he whispered, feeling his throat tightening.

_Maisie, where are you?_

_Mary, Violet… did you find her?_

“John,” Sherlock sat at John’s feet, cross-legged. Staring up at him, Sherlock asked in a quiet, serious voice: “What can I do? What do you want?”

John laughed bitterly. “What do I want? I want… I want things to go back to the way they were. I want it to be you and me against the world. I want to go _home_. I want to be back in 221B. I…”

_Don’t say it…_ Sherlock pleaded with John silently.  _You’ll hate yourself the minute the words leave your mouth._

 “… don’t want to be married anymore, I don’t want _this_ anymore. I hate this, my life now. Violet was right, I only stayed with Mary because of the baby. I should have left, immediately, the minute I learned she tried to kill you to save her own arse.”

“That’s not why she shot me,” Sherlock’s voice was characteristically tentative. “John, she loves you. Truly, she does.”

“I don’t care,” John said woodenly. “I really don’t care anyone if she loves me or not. Back at the Empty House, she pointed the gun _at me_ , when she thought I was _you_. Her finger was on the trigger, I saw it. She knows you’re my best friend, but she was ready to kill you _again_. How is _that_ love? If I had left her, Mycroft would not have taken my child.”

“John, we don’t know that for sure.”

“Don’t we?”

Sherlock lowered his head, his lips tight together.

“But Mycroft did take my daughter and I can’t leave Mary now. I can’t divorce her because without me, Mycroft will blow her fucking head off, won’t he?”

Still tight-lipped, Sherlock nodded.

“I don’t want to be married to her, but I don’t want her to die either.” John ran his hand over his tired face. “I wish I never met her. I wish I never married her. I wish I didn’t have a child with her. You know what I want, what I _really_ want, Sherlock?” His hand dropped from his face. “I want you to use your massive intellect to create a time-machine so you can _fix this_. Go back and make it so I never met her. Make it that I wasn’t so goddamn needy and broken while you were away. No. I take that last bit back,” John fixed his eyes on the top of Sherlock’s curly head. Feeling his stare, Sherlock looked up at him.

“Go back to 2011 to tell your past self to _trust me. Tell me_ about the mind games Moriarty was playing with you so I can _help you_ stop him. So you wouldn’t have had to confront him alone at St. Bart’s. I want you to not have jumped off that bloody roof. Can you do that?”  

Sherlock shook his head. Then, after a look of absolute defeat crossed his face, he lowered his head again and leaned against John’s uninjured leg. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice muffled. “I’ve utterly failed you, John.”

Still trying to stave off tears, a pained “Oh,” slipped out of John’s mouth as he unthinkingly reached down to run his hand over Sherlock’s head. But the minute his fingertips touched the black curls, he jerked them back. As if he had just realized he was about to touch burning coals.

But, head still against John’s thigh, eyes fixed firmly onto Mrs. Hudson’s ugly carpet, Sherlock muttered “I don’t mind.”

So John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You didn’t fail me,” he said very carefully, making sure his voice sounded even while he blinked his eyes very, very rapidly. “OK? You hear me? You’ve never failed me… you’ve… just not done a very good job communicating your plans with me, that’s all.”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, is that all? I’ll endeavor to do better.”

“Good,” John said. “Because that’s what I really want. I don’t want you keeping me in the dark anymore. Also, I need your help finding Maisie if Mary and Violet were unsuccessful tonight. I need her death certificate revoked. I need a missing persons report opened.”

“I’ll call Lestrade tomorrow.”

“And… I want you to help me find a good divorce attorney.”

Sherlock’s head shot up. “John…”

“I’m serious,” John said flatly. “Deduce me. You know I am.”

 “That’s the pain speaking.”

“Yeah. It is. The pain of watching my best friend bleed out,” John fixed his dark blue eyes on Sherlock’s unpredictable, indeterminate ones. Now they looked less green and more cerulean. John continued: “The pain of being lied to about my daughter dying. Knowing my baby girl is out there because your ‘unsentimental’ brother is punishing my wife for nearly killing you. We’ll figure out a way to keep Mary safe, but Sherlock, I’m done.” He held up his left hand,then winced from the pain caused by lifting his injured arm. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything earlier tonight, actually.”

“I noticed, of course I noticed. I see _everything_.”

“Good. Then see to it you track down the best solicitor possible. When I find my daughter, I want full custody. Do you honestly think a child would be safe with Mary?” 

But before Sherlock could say anything else, there was a tap on the back door.

“Sherlock?” Violet called through the door.

“To be continued,” Sherlock said to John as he lithely sprang to his feet to answer the door.

While he had helplessly watched the A&E nurses and doctor tend to John, Sherlock had also been texting Violet to find out what in the world was happening to her and Mary. He had paced restlessly while the doctor stitched John up and his mobile stayed resolutely silently.

Finally, Violet had texted him back:

Everything went to hell  
But we’re OK  
En route back to 221B – VS

Via text, Sherlock learned that while he had helped John hobble inside the A&E approximately when Mary, posing as Violet on a dirt bike, had made her audacious escape. Violet had confirmed she also had made quite a dramatic get-away as well.

However, she had left out the bit about playing chicken with his brother.

After ditching the ancient station wagon they had stolen from an unsuspecting, slumbering villager, they walked the two miles back to Baker Street. The storm had finally diminished but in London it was still lightly raining. Chilled and dejected, the women had stuck to the alleys, to avoid the glare of the all-seeing CCTV cameras. “What are you going to tell Sherlock about Mycroft?” Mary had asked as she adjusted the straps of her rucksacks.

“Nothing,” Violet had responded as her mobile whirred. “I’m not saying a damn thing until we have confirmation either way. And even if they say he’s dead, I’m not going to believe it until I poke his corpse with a sharpened stick.”

As she had checked her mobile, covering it with her free hand to protect it from the rain, Mary asked in a wavering voice: “How’s John?”

“Not great,” Violet had said, her face bathed by the faint light of the mobile screen. “But Sherlock’s got him back at Baker Street. They’re in Mrs. Hudson’s apartment.”

“Why?”

“Stairs,” Violet had shut her mobile off and tucked it into her trousers.

“Of course,” Mary had muttered. Neither woman said a word until they finally reached the alley behind 221 Baker Street. Feeling a weird sense of déjà vu, Violet tapped on Mrs. Hudson’s back door. The last time she had entered the landlady’s flat this way was when she and John had brought a strung-out Sherlock and a little girl they had rescued in this way.  

Sherlock threw the door open. Relief crossed his face before he shut down his emotions and became his usual, reserved self, “And?”

“It was a shit-storm,” Violet said bluntly as she let herself inside.

“Ah, I see we’re no longer continuing the ‘Miss Smith’ routine in front of Mary,” Sherlock said, moving aside so Mary could enter. He felt an odd twitch in his stomach, seeing John’s wife wearing her assassin get-up again. But when she pulled off her black stocking cap, Sherlock saw Mary again instead of AGRA. “Good, the act was getting dull.”

Violet ignored him. “Does Mrs. Hudson have any booze?”

“Lounge,” Sherlock said succinctly. Violet let her rucksack drop to the floor and left the kitchen.

“How’s John?” Mary clutched Sherlock’s damp suit jacket the minute she was alone with him.

Her hand was very close to the spot where she had shot him.

It took every single ounce of self-control not to push her away. Gently he disengaged her grip from his jacket. Then he kissed her hand and squeezed her fingers tenderly. “Do not fret, Mary. He’s in pain, but it’s not fatal.”

He cupped her face with his other hand. To the casual observer, it appeared he was merely a good friend comforting a very worried wife.

To one who knew Sherlock well (or as well as he would allow one to know him), it was obvious he was busy deducing her.

_Frightened. Relieved. Frightened. Angry. Frightened. Loving. Frightened. Terrified. Scared…_

_Panicking._

“Go take care of him,” he let go of her hand and face. “He needs you. More than he realizes.”

Mary smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered as she hurried from the kitchen to the lounge.

While Sherlock and Mary had been talking, Violet had raided Mrs. Hudson’s liquor cabinet after giving John a kiss on the top of his head and an awkward hug. She poured two tumblers of scotch and had just handed one to John when Mary entered the lounge.

“Oh John,” her voice broke.

“Hi,” he responded emotionlessly.

Violet, immediately picking up on the chill, shot a look at Sherlock as he hovered in doorway.

Sherlock gave her a quick shake of his head. _Later_.

Violet wasn’t sure at first if Mary hadn’t noticed John’s coolness or was choosing to ignore it. She took a long drink as she watched Mary fuss over John’s injuries. She decided Mary was ignoring John’s reticence as she sat next to him, kissing his cheek, running her hand over his silvery-sandy hair as she whispered endearments and apologies.

John was as responsive as a plank of wood.

_Awkward…_ Violet thought as she took another drink. The alcohol started to chase away the chill in her bones. “Sherlock,” she said after swallowing. “Have you taken Gladstone out since you’ve been back?”

“No. Apologies. I had forgotten about him in light of tonight,” Sherlock immediately knew what Violet was doing. “Come along Violet. Let’s take care of the beast then call it a night. We will pick up where we left off when the sun is up.”

“Sherlock…” John gave Sherlock an unmistakably plaintive look. _Don’t leave…_

“To be continued,” Sherlock reminded John. “Let Mary take care of you. She can do a far better job than I ever could.”

_Wow, if that’s not a loaded sentence, I don’t know what is_ , the profiler thought to herself as she drained her glass. “We’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” Violet said, more to John than Mary.

Sherlock turned his back and abruptly walked out of the flat. Violet went to retrieve her rucksack then had to jog to catch up to him.

She met him on the staircase up to 221B. “She’s losing it,” she stated baldly to Sherlock, grabbing his wet jacket to make him stop. “She’s dangerous and she’s going to get us all killed.”

“I know.”

“What the hell were you and John talking about before Mary and I got here? Something happened, don’t lie to me.” 

“I am doing my very best to convince John not to leave his wife.”

“ _What?_ ”

Sherlock jerked his head towards his front door and Violet followed him. “You are correct. Mary’s maternal instinct is clouding her good sense. It’s only a matter of time before she engages on a murderous rampage if she believes that is the only way to retrieve her daughter. Her marriage to John is the only thing now keeping her tethered to the side of angels.”

“Mother of God, what did I start?” Violet said hollowly as Sherlock unlocked the door. “Sherlock, I had no way of knowing that helping Mary would create this… this mess.”

“Clearly my brother is slipping if he allowed the knowledge of Marissa Watson’s existence to get out,” Sherlock said as he opened the door.

Cooped up since John and Sherlock had left many, many hours earlier, Gladstone sprang off the sofa. He first started to do his Happy to See You dance, quickly followed by his Have to Potty dance.

“Go change out of those damp clothes,” Violet retrieved Gladstone’s leash. “The last thing we need is for you to get sick again.”

“Are you still carrying?” Sherlock asked lightly, finally taking John’s gun from out of his trousers. “If not…”

Violet traded Sherlock her rucksack for John’s gun. She had put her own gun in the rucksack once they were safely in Westminster. She racked the slide and left the safety off. “Gladstone, _komm_ ,” she commanded as she tucked John’s gun into the waistband of her trousers.

Sherlock noticed the very military-looking, black flak jacket she wore that was obviously too big for her, but he did not comment. But he did think _MI-6_.

Then he sighed. Ran his hand over his wet hair and shook his head at the complexities of the world. Then he started shedding articles of clothing  one by one as he made his way to his bathroom, looking forward to a boiling hot shower.

Meanwhile, while Gladstone happily relieved himself on a fireplug, Violet noticed a familiar –looking car parked kitty-corner across from 221 Baker Street. Pretending to be checking the time, Violet pulled out her Smartphone and thumbed through her photo gallery, searching for a picture until-

“Son-of-a-bitch,” she seethed, looking at a photograph of a number plate on her mobile then looking up at the same number plate on the car parked feet away from her.

_Victor, what the hell are you doing here?_   She fumed. _Not dealing with your bullshit tonight_.

“Gladstone,” she snapped, her voice crisp, nearly militant.

Gladstone recognized the change in her tone at once. His ears twitched up. He knew he was On the Job now. The friendly, lovable dog was gone . He pressed his body close to Violet’s, ready to go to work.

Violet stalked across the street. She knew she looked a fright and she didn’t care. She planned on making her disheveled, furious appearance work to her advantage.

She rapped on the window of Victor’s car in the same manner as she had the SUV at the estates.

Her legs threatened to give way when the window unrolled and Mycroft Holmes stared dispassionately at her.

Instinctively her hand reached around her back, but in a bored voice, Mycroft drawled, “Oh yes, gun down a government bureaucrat in front of a CCTV camera. Brilliant.”

Violet lowered her hands and reminded herself she could give one simple command and Mycroft would become mincemeat. As Gladstone softly snarled next to her, feeding off her anxiety, she asked, “Why are you in Victor Trevor’s car?”

“I steal from him when he vexes me,” Mycroft said airily. In the dim streetlight, Violet could see that his eyes were blackened and he had a huge butterfly-style Elastoplast on his forehead.

“Did the crash hurt?” Violet asked sweetly.

“Immensely.”

“Good.”

Mycroft’s nostrils flared. “My dear Agent Hunter, I crave to have a word with you.”

“Um. OK. _Fuck you_. There. That’s two words.”

“Do stop being childish,” Mycroft heaved a long suffering sigh. “You may be the only one I can speak freely and sensibly with about my brother. John won’t listen to reason. He’s too emotional, and Mary, well… I’ll explain Mary in a bit.” He gestured to the dog. “May I exit the vehicle without worrying you’ll issue the command to have Gladstone attack?” He held his hands up. “I’m unarmed and I’m alone, Agent Hunter.” 

Violet’s eyes flicked up to the CCTV camera. “Let’s take a walk then,” she grudgingly agreed. “Gladstone’s been inside all day and night.”

“Lovely weather for it,” Mycroft said quite sarcastically. Violet tugged on Gladstone’s leash. In tandem, the agent and the police dog took a step back as Mycroft opened his car door. Violet watched him slowly getting out of the car, wincing as he did so. She fantasized about shooting him in the back as he reached back in to retrieve his umbrella.

And the command to attack sat on the tip of her tongue in case Mycroft was retrieving something other than his umbrella.

But it was only his umbrella, not a gun or knife or any other weapon. He popped it open then crooked his elbow out. Not wanting to touch him in the slightest, Violet gingerly placed her fingertips on his proffered arm. Ever the epitome of English politeness and decorum, Mycroft held his umbrella over all three of them. Together they began strolling down Baker Street. Mycroft walked very slowly and very, very stiffly.

_Good_ , Violet thought viciously.

“Well, this isn’t weird,” she finally said a few minutes later, to cut the silence.

“I’m not enjoying this any more than you are,” Mycroft sniped back. “But I’m running out of options. As much as it would please me to ship you straight back to America, you may be the only one who can help me now.”

“Help you do what?”

“Protect my brother.”

“From who? Moriarty? Himself? You? All the above?”

“Anthea believes you saved her from Mary the night you interrogated her about the missing Watson infant. Anthea speaks five languages, by the way. You speak, only four, I believe? And while you’re not fluent in Russian, you know enough to scrape by.”

_Oh shit_ , Violet thought dismally. _Anthea understood everything we were saying._

“Mary wouldn’t have killed her,” Violet bluffed. “She was just trying to scare her.”

“Charming, how you all continue to defend the virtuous Mary Watson,” Mycroft dryly chuckled. “The cat-lover. The bread-maker. The noble nurse. The loving wife.”

“And panicking mother,” Violet countered. “Where the fuck is Maisie Watson?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Violet stopped in her tracks. “I’m not a genius like you and your brother, but I know when someone is blowing smoke up my ass. Why don’t you want Mary and John to have their child?”

“I would be very happy to reunite _John_ with his daughter,” Mycroft turned to face her. Politely, he still held the umbrella over Violet and Gladstone, even though the rain was reduced to a drizzle now. “I honestly do not know where Marissa Watson is, except that she is safe. That is all I know. That is all I am permitted to know at this time.”

“Permitted to know…” Violet furrowed her slender eyebrows together. “What are you talking about? You’re the British Government. You know _everything_. Sherlock said so.”

“Not everything. Not anymore,” Mycroft corrected her. “When they set up that little game for you and John to play in order to retrieve Sherlock from the sweets factory, did it ever strike you as strange, that the _Rouge Dirigé Liguecase_ left behind that one little girl? Beatriu, I believe she was called?”

Violet stared at Mycroft uncomprehendingly then sucked in a breath. “Because they knew we were coming. They left the kid there so Anderson could use her as a human shield.” Then Violet closed her eyes, “Of course, the mole. Anthea said there is a mole in MI-6.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock is helping you find him. Or her.”

 “Very good,” Mycroft said patronizingly. “Now stretch your limited intellect just a little more.”

Violet scowled at him, then said, “They think the leak is coming from your division.”

“You really are brighter than the average American.”

Violet crossed her arms and jutted her chin up. “Your cute, condescending comments aren’t helping me understand what exactly I’m supposed to protect Sherlock from?”

“Very well, I will get to the point.”

“That would be a welcome change of pace.”

“How much do you know about the Magnussen shooting?”

She blinked. “Just what John told me,” she said cautiously. Then added coldly, “And what you hinted at when we were video-conferencing before John and I saved your brother’s ass.”

“That wasn’t a hint, Agent Hunter. My brother did murder Charles Augustus Magnussen. But I will explain why momentarily. Now, to clarify, John told you that he and Sherlock were working a case and Sherlock got shot, correct?”

“Yeah…?”

“That’s all he told you?”

“Yeah,” Violet said again, placing her hand on top of Gladstone’s head for support. Her arms and legs felt strange, tingling. As if they had all fallen asleep at once.

“He never explained why they were investigating Magnussen?”

“I thought you were going to get to the point, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s smile was bone-chilling. “Magnussen was a blackmailer extraordinaire. Sherlock was approached by the Lady Smallwood to take the case because her husband was being blackmailed by Magnussen. But Sherlock accepted the case, not because Magnussen was blackmailing the Smallwoods.” The cold smile left Mycroft’s face. “Magnussen was blackmailing me. Somehow, Sherlock found out and took the case for _me_.”

“Why was Magnussen blackmailing you?”

“He wanted me to use my influence to sway Parliament into voting in some fairly unethical measures that would serve to benefit him and his financial profile.”

“How unethical?”

“He wanted to dismantle the NHS and install privatized medical insurance because it has worked _so well_ in your country.”

“And twenty bucks says he has, _had_ , shares in an American insurance company that wanted to compete in the global market, preferring to start in English-speaking countries. But England has national health coverage, so they’d never get a foothold here unless the NHS ceased to exist.” 

“A valid assumption.”

“And when you wouldn’t play, he applied the thumbscrews.” _Somebody told Magnussen about Sherlock and the Earl and how you did nothing to stop it._ Praying to God he would believe her act, she asked, “Do I even want to know what Magnussen was holding over your head?”

She didn’t understand herself exactly why she lied. But her sharp survival instincts ordered her to keep quiet about how she knew about the Earl and what he had done to Sherlock. And Violet always followed her instincts.

“It is not germane to this discussion,” he said quickly.

“Fine by me,” Violet said just as quickly. “But OK, so Magnussen was blackmailing you. What does that have to do protecting Sherlock and keeping Maisie away from John and Mary?”

“Does the acronym AGRA mean anything to you?” Mycroft asked idly, as if asking about the weather. But he felt a vindictive glow of pleasure watching her eyes widen. If the street lights had been brighter, he was sure her face would be the color of snow.

“She’s still on the FBI’s Most Wanted List,” Violet tried to sound nonchalant. ”But she’s been off anyone’s radar for almost ten years now so what does that have to do with anything…”

Something finally clicked.

_Two… no,_ three _of the best assassins are his best friends…_

“Oh my God,” Violet felt the pavement beneath her feet tilt.

“It’s starting to come together now, isn’t it?” Mycroft said silkily. “Allow me to fill in the rest of the missing pieces so you can see why I need you. Lady Smallwood and I weren’t the only ones Magnussen was blackmailing, you see. Somehow he discovered who Mary Morstan really was, probably and logically when she got engaged to the famous Consulting Detective’s partner. What he threatened her with, I have no idea. The logical theory is he wanted her to do one last job, only with Magnussen-”

“There is no Last Job,” Violet said hoarsely.

“Exactly. Can you deduce what happens next?”

She had a feeling where this story was going. She desperately hoped she was wrong.

“Mary went to finish Magnussen off.” She stalled.

“Go on.”

“She went the same night as Sherlock and John did.  Sherlock made his fake-proposal to Janine to gain access to Magnussen’s building. Sherlock and John must have separated at some point because…” Suddenly it was very difficult to breathe as the truth sank in. “Because John found Magnussen unconscious and Sherlock bleeding out.” She rubbed her eyes, feeling completely betrayed. “Mary shot Sherlock. Oh my God… that bitch played me.”

“She deceived everyone, Violet,” Mycroft said as gently as possible. “She is still deceiving John and Sherlock. She conned Sherlock into killing Magnussen for her. He thought there was no other option to save Mary and John from being killed by Mary’s enemies. He still believes Mary is his friend, to this day, despite all the chaos she is causing.”

“Started by _you_ , for taking her baby!”

“We didn’t abduct the infant.”

“What?”

Mycroft shook his head. “That wasn’t us. That was the _Rouge_. The mole alerted them when Mary went into premature labor. We were all distracted by covering up the Magnussen shooting and dealing with Jim Moriarty’s return. In less than two days, they had snatched the child from under our noses and found someone else’s dead baby for John to bury.”

Violet honestly thought she was going to be sick. “But you said she was _safe_?”

“We created a task force immediately once we had reviewed the hospital security footage,” Mycroft said grimly. “I knew what would happen if Mary found out someone kidnapped her child. I predicted she would go on the warpath. But I also knew we couldn’t leave the child in the hands of the _Rouge_. Marissa Watson has been found. A month ago. The child is safe. That is all I know. That is all I am permitted to know.”

“Because of the mole.”

“Yes.”

“You believe Mary is still a threat to Sherlock.”

“Oh yes.”

Violet reviewed her profile of Mary then shook her head. “No. She wouldn’t hurt him. She must have panicked or something that night. She’s fond of Sherlock. She likes him.”

“AGRA is just as an accomplished actress as you are. After all, you did convince the world you are in love with my brother, the coldest and most difficult man you have ever known?”   

“Well, yeah, but-”

Mycroft cut over her, “And now knowing what you do, do you really think Mary would hesitate to kill Sherlock, if that meant she could force me to reveal to her where Marissa is? You did say she’s a panicking mother.” When Violet didn’t answer, Mycroft let a bit more of his humanity show. “Violet, please, I don’t beg often. But Sherlock won’t let me help him. He doesn’t trust me and I do not blame him for that. I haven’t always been an exemplary brother to him. But I need a barrier between him and Mary. John’s too emotional. He’s torn between Sherlock and Mary. I need someone who, without hesitation, can draw a gun and incapacitate Mary without killing her, if at all possible.”

“Why me?” Violet burst out. “She has five outstanding warrants, two of them in the United States. All you have to do is arrest her and have her extradited. One of the warrants she has in the US is in Texas, which has the death penalty. Problem _fucking_ solved.”

“That is precisely why I cannot just arrest her. Or have her executed.”

“Why not?”

“Mary has set up a double-hit.”

“What?”

“If Mary should be assassinated or if anything should happen to Mary that causes her an unnatural, premature death, a hit automatically goes out on Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Five million euros to be paid out of an off-shore account to the one who puts a bullet in Sherlock’s head.”

Violet immediately saw the brilliance and cruelty of Mary’s plan. “She did that precisely so you wouldn’t try and take her out.”

“Indeed. But since you once were a law-enforcement agent, you do know how to shoot to wound. And you would have the wisdom to bring her quietly to us.”

“If you would have told me all of this before last night, I would have delivered her to you.”

“I tried to tell you,” Mycroft gave her that infuriating tight little smile again. “But you were too busy trying to run me off the road.”

“Well, I thought you were trying to kill me so excuse me all the way to hell,” she snapped.

“Apologies accepted.”

Violet closed her eyes again. The numbness had finally left her extremities but she still felt awful. _Play your cards right_ , she told herself. As calmly as she could, she asked, “What’s in it for me if I protect Sherlock from Mary for you?”

“Total security,” Mycroft said lightly. His reptilian eyes flicked down to her left hand. “You’re not wearing the ring Sherlock gave you. I don’t blame you. Sherlock has abysmal taste in jewelry. Mummy did say she would give her engagement ring to whichever one of us who got engaged first, so,” Mycroft sighed theatrically. “Congratulations. Her ring is quite lovely.”

“What,” Violet said flatly. Then, her voice a bit higher and a bit more panicked, added “No! Mycroft, the engagement is fake, it’s the for the Rucastle case. Sherlock and I… we’re just…”

“Welcome to the family, sister-in-law,” he sneered.

“No, Mycroft… this is positively medieval. You can’t… _you can’t do this to me!_ ” She took a step closer to him as she pointed to herself. “This is my life you’re fucking with. This is _wrong_.”

“This is the only way I can ensure you stay close to Sherlock. Permanently. And this is the only way you get to stay alive. May I remind you that Homeland Security and the CIA are fully aware that the FBI burned you and your team on the flimsiest of pretexts? They currently don’t care about you or what you do… as long as you stay here, in the United Kingdom.”

“If I go through with this,” Violet said in a deadened voice. “’Miss Smith’ isn’t just a cover story anymore. Violet Hunter is truly dead and gone. Violet Smith becomes a real, legitimate person with all the appropriate documentation. I officially become a British citizen.”

 “With all the rights and privileges that go with it, yes.”

“But I can never go home.”   

“My dear Violet,” Mycroft purred. “London is your home.”

Violet closed her eyes, feeling tears threatening now. “You can’t do this. What about Sherlock? It’s his life too. He won’t want this. He won’t do this. This is… this is…” she covered her face with her hands like a child, “Mycroft, _please_. I just want to go back to the United States. You,” she lowered her hands and balled them into fists. “ _You can’t keep me here!_ ”

“If you return to America, you are a dead wo man, along with your deceased brother’s wife and daughter. What is her name, your niece? Vivian, isn’t it?”

“You fucking stay away from Julie and Vivian,” Violet spat, fully in Mycroft’s face now. 

Mycroft looked completely unperturbed. “Vivian is seven years old now I believe. She likes horses and reading.” Mycroft found her pressure point and pushed. Pushed _hard_. “And she misses her daddy and auntie very much and she hopes they are having fun together in heaven.”

Violet swallowed a sob and backed away from Mycroft. Gladstone stood in front of Violet and started growling in earnest.

“No one will touch them,” Mycroft assured her while keeping an uneasy eye on the Alsatian. “As no one will touch you, if you change your name. One last time.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“What about him?”

Violet wiped the tears off of her face and squared her shoulders. “No one touches him either. You stop using him to advance your political agenda. After he finds the mole, you leave him the hell alone.”

“That’s not possible. He’s needed. His genius-”

“Is a gift. Not for you to exploit.”

“And how to do you intend to hold me to this promise?” Mycroft looked amused.

“I go public.”

That was not the response he expected. “They… you won’t be able to prove it,” he spluttered.

She shrugged. “I don’t have to prove anything. I just have to get the story published. Didn’t you learn anything from the Magnussen case? And how long do you think you’ll live once Mary gets it in her head you’re the one keeping Maisie from her?”

“You will have a very short life expectancy if you proceed with that plan.”

Violet found Mycroft’s pressure point and pushed it with all her might. “And Sherlock’s will be even shorter. Because Mary is short-circuiting, fast. It might not even be your people or Moriarty’s people who kill her. Right now, it could be fucking _John_ who pulls the trigger.”

Mycroft knew when to quit when he was ahead. “Your sister-in-law, your niece, your life and Sherlock’s will all be safeguarded by my family wealth and my political clout whenever and however possible. You continue to cover up my brother’s social gaffes and faux pas but more importantly, _keep him alive_.”

“Done.”

“I may ask Sherlock to… consult on a case or two for MI-6 when necessary.”

“And he has the right to decline.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing.”

Mycroft frowned. “What?”

“You set up a trust fund for my niece so she can go to college.”

“Done.”

“And I want the account numbers and I want copies of the paperwork once it’s set up.”

“Very well. Mycroft’s face twisted up sourly. He added, “Mummy will be delighted to meet you.”

Violet rolled her eyes and turned her back to Mycroft. “Gladstone, _komm_.”

“Violet!” he called after her.

“What?” she snapped.

“Thank you,” he said humbly.

Violet gave Mycroft a sharp nod and retreated towards Baker Street.

Once inside, Violet found it impossible to stand. She all but collapsed onto the bottom step as the night’s events finally caught up with her. She began to shake uncontrollably and shuddering sobs wracked her body. Gladstone nuzzled her and whined.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. But she jumped in shock when she felt a fluffy towel placed over her shoulders.

Sherlock, in his pyjama pants and t-shirt, shooed Gladstone away and sat down next to Violet. “I saw Mycroft out the window,” he said quietly. “What has he done?”

“Not here,” Violet whispered, afraid Mary would overhear.

Sherlock nodded. He called to Gladstone and the dog raced ahead of them.

Violet sank down onto the sofa as Gladstone went to claim Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock locked the door. Grabbing his Belstaff, he wrapped it around Violet so she could warm up. “Tell me everything,” he said, sitting next to her.

Not mincing words, Violet did just that. “He threatened my sister-in-law and niece,” she started sobbing again. “Sherlock, they’re all I have left of Michael, I can’t…” she covered her face with her hand, “That fucking bastard.”

Sherlock rose elegantly and went to retrieve the box of tissues on his computer desk. “Do stop blubbering, Violet. It doesn’t become you and it doesn’t solve any problems.”

“Fuck you, I’ll cry if I want to,” Violet snarled, but she couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Thanks,” she said, taking a handful of tissues from the proffered box.

“I’ll have a word with him,” Sherlock said quietly as Violet mopped up her eyes. “This is the twenty-first century. Mycroft’s proposal, forgive me for the ill-timed pun, is utterly ridiculous.”

“What about the double-hit?” Violet whispered as he sat down on the coffee table, facing her.

“Then we will have to make keeping Mary Watson alive a top priority, won’t we?” Sherlock put his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin with his hands. “Do not fret, Violet. I will think of a way to convince Mary to rescind the double-hit.”

Violet drew her legs up and sat crossed-legged on the sofa. She pulled the Belstaff close around her. “We can’t tell John. Not yet.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.  

_Because that’s what I really want. I don’t want you keeping me in the dark anymore._   

“We will have to tell him eventually,” Sherlock reluctantly told her. “But not now. It is imperative that John remains married to Mary, for Mary’s safety as well as ours. The knowledge of the double-hit would be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, I’m afraid.”

“Is he serious? About leaving Mary?”

“He is. He has completely fallen out of love with her.”

Violet pushed the wet curls that had escaped her plait out of her face. “God, what a clusterfuck.”

“Indeed.”

“And we have the Copper Beaches to look forward to as well,” Violet groaned. “Did you and John at least find anything at Rucastle’s offices?” 

Sherlock nodded, “John and I found evidence connecting Westaways and Persephone Ltd. I sent an anonymous tip to Alex MacDonald even though she was thrown off the case.”

“What? Why?” After Sherlock filled her in about Mason’s threatened ego, Violet then burst out, “That fucking idiot.”

“I concur. Lestrade is lodging a complaint.”

“Good.” Violet leaned back on the sofa. “But you didn’t find Evie?”

“We didn’t have the opportunity to search the rest of the buildings before John was attacked. However, while John was getting sutured, I did send a text to a few of my Homeless Network associates, in case Alex is unable to get anyone at the Yard to help her. They are searching the rest of the buildings for Evie as well as for the dog.”

“And we’ve confirmed she’s not at Rucastle’s house. So she has to be at The Copper Beaches.”

“It is the next logical place to search, yes.”

“Do you think John and Mary can pull off the Happily Married Couple?”

“I will stress the importance that they do so.”

“Sherlock,” Violet tried to smile at him. “What are _we_ going to do? No offense, but I _really_ don’t want to marry you.”

“No offense taken my dear Violet. Even though I have become quite fond of you and have surprisingly enjoyed cohabitating with you and Gladstone these past few months, I have no desire to marry you either. I think it is time,” his dark eyebrows beetled together, “for you and I to seriously contemplate the possibility of leaving London permanently. I did make a promise to you, Violet, that I would clear your name and get you safely back to America. While I appreciate your vow to get me from out underneath Mycroft’s paw,” he smiled sadly at her. “Violet, I’m afraid you’re just not clever enough to outwit my brother.”

“OK, but what about John and Mary?”

“I will not leave John. That was the fatal mistake I made during The Fall. I should have brought him with me,” Sherlock admitted bitterly, then added, “Once you and I explain everything to him, he would see the good sense in leaving London. He has no love for Mycroft.”

“And Mary?”

“While he does not want to be married to Mary anymore, he does not wish for any harm to come to her either. Nor do I, despite everything. Mary,” Sherlock paused, for once choosing his words carefully instead of blurting out what was on his mind. “Was born into a life she never wanted. She never desired to be AGRA or Anya for that matter. Not everything about Mary Morstan is a lie, you know. Her love for John is not a lie. Her love for her child is not a lie. And she is quite a good baker, actually.”  

Violet ignored his tangent. “Where would we go?”

“New York.”

“Great. When do we leave?”

“November.”

“November… _November_? Why would we _wait_ that long?” Violet burst out. “We should leave, now. Hell, we could all fake our deaths at the Copper Beaches, have that pinned on Rucastle and be on the first flight to Spain. We have money, I still have access to Jack Woodley’s offshore account. Why the hell would we wait until _November_?”

“Because I need to wait until Molly gives birth, of course.”

“What?”

“I think the time for you pretending you don’t know who the father of Molly’s baby is has passed,” Sherlock said calmly. “I’m not leaving London without my son.”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Violet bolted up from the sofa, the towel and the Belstaff sliding off her shoulders. “Are Greg and Molly coming with us too?”

“No.”

Violet stared down at Sherlock, aghast. Remembering some of her late night discussions with John, she sputtered at him:  “Sherlock… you promised her… _you promised her_.”

“She didn’t exactly give me any other option than to agree to her decisions,” Sherlock remained calm. “She didn’t tell me about the baby. I deduced she was pregnant the day we went to identify your former supervisor’s body.”

“Oh,” Violet closed her eyes, remembering…remembering how she had just finished leaving messages with Bear’s London solicitor and the firm’s insurance company and was searching on her iPad for a decent funeral home when Molly burst in. John and Violet had both immediately noticed how Molly’s eyes were quite red and puffy as well. She had most definitely been crying.

  _Oh…_ Molly had sniffled, looking from John to Violet and back again. _Hello…_

  _You OK, Molly?_ John had asked.

_Of course_ , she had said, just a little too brightly.

_Did Sherlock say something to upset you? I’ll have a word with him if he did…_

_No, he’s actually behaving himself for once. I’m just, well, being silly…_

_Molly, I can talk to Sherlock if he is being obnoxious…_

_I am perfectly capable of telling off Sherlock Holmes if necessary!_ Molly had snapped then immediately apologized, _I’m sorry, John, I’m just not feeling very well today, that’s all…_

“After I made my deduction, I confronted her,” Sherlock continued. “She confirmed the child was mine. I had a relapse last January. I was high, she was intoxicated. If not for those two factors, this,” he spread his hands out, as if he was holding an imaginary child. “Would have never had happened. I admitted that I thought I would be a terrible father and she was perfectly aware of that fact. She said she was. She then _informed_ me how things were going to be, she didn’t discuss anything with me. So, after thinking about it, I agreed to her terms and promised her I would support the child financially. But… what I didn’t tell her was that…” he tilted his head to his side, still looking up at Violet. Fixing his eyes on hers, he admitted one of his darkest secrets. “I didn’t tell her how very much I _resented_ her for making decisions without me. And even though yes, I probably would be an awful father… she denied me the opportunity to _try_.” 

“So you’re going to get back at her by kidnapping the kid?” Violet asked coolly.

“Revenge is not my motivation,” Sherlock snapped, standing up. In the narrow space between the sofa and coffee-table, he and Violet  stood nearly nose-to-nose. “If you believe vengeance is the reason behind my decision, than you are not nearly as good as a profiler as you make yourself out to be, Agent Hunter. Lestrade and Molly are hopelessly outmatched. Even if it never comes to light that I’m the child’s biological father, the _Rouge_ and other enemies that I have would target them. For the simple fact that Molly Hooper _counts_. That she is close to me, close enough to help fake my death. It’s common knowledge that she held quite the torch for me…”

“And there was a time you reciprocated,” Violet said quietly. “I _am_ a damn good profiler. You just didn’t’ realize how you felt about her until it was too late, after you came back from the Fall and she was engaged to Tom-What’s-His-Name. Even though you were high, you would have never gone to her apartment if you didn’t love her a little bit. You don’t _do_ casual sex.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said coldly. “The point is even though only you, John and Lestrade know the full details about my unique relationship with Molly, the world knows she is a trusted confidante of mine. Just as Moriarty and his network abducted Marissa Watson, they will surely come after Molly’s child, regardless of who the father is, just to hurt her and me. But because he is my child, I am not going to sit on my backside and wait for those predators to take him, be it the _Rouge_ or my own brother.”

“Sherloc-”

But he cut across her, “Do you know what Moriarty’s people will do if the rumors are confirmed that he’s mine?” Before Violet could answer, Sherlock told her: “They will sell him to the highest bidder. And can you deduce who the highest bidder would be, if he ever found out  the child’s true paternity?”

“The fucking Earl,” Violet closed her eyes. “I should just pay Mary to blow his brains out and be done with it.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered that myself,” Sherlock muttered darkly. “Or Mycroft’s.”

Violet’s eyes flew open. “You… you would actually… have your own brother killed?” The pins-and-needles sensation crept back into her arms and legs.

It was one thing for Violet to try and kill Mycroft. But she had acted in self-defense. It seemed obscene, somehow, for Sherlock to be contemplating his own brother’s death.

Sherlock, however, merely arched an eyebrow. “Why not? He had our adopted brother killed, remember? And if Mycroft’s death is what it takes to keep my son safe,” he shrugged negligently. Observing her horror-stricken face, he added “But that would be a very last resort, of course. I’m not a psychopath, remember.”

Violet felt the last of her strength ebbing fast. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “There has got to be another way. Without killing your brother or taking your little boy away from his mother.”

“Molly didn’t give me any options, why should I extend her the same courtesy?”

“Because if you take that baby, you are no better than Mycroft.”

That shot hit home.

“Then what do I do?”

It took Violet a moment to realize he wasn’t making a snide, rhetorical question.

She shook her head and reached out to gently clasped his lower arm. “I don’t know,” she admitted as she pulled him to her.

Embracing him was exactly how she imagined it would be: like hugging a skeleton. Indeed, he stood quite stiffly as Violet wrapped her arms around his waist. His arms were like sticks as he awkwardly put them around her.

But eventually, his body relaxed and his arms encircled her into a proper hug. Violet felt the beat of his heart slow as she pressed her cheek against his chest. She felt him rest his head against hers. Felt his chest moved as he sighed.

Then he asked, “Is this how normal people feel when they can’t solve problems? All muddled and confused? How do you all function in life feeling this way? It must get irritating.”

“Do you have to be such a dick _all the time_?”

“Well,” Sherlock huffed. “I think that’s a very legitimate question. I am a genius, I don’t know how normal people think, with their funny little brains overridden by foolish sentiment.”

“Sherlock… _darling_. Shut up.”

Sherlock reached down and tilted her head up. “You’re exhausted.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

 “I will get everything sorted out, I promise. You will not have to marry me. No one should be subjected to a lifetime shackled to me.”

“Well, there are worse fates. Mycroft could have ordered me to marry him instead of you.”

“Dear God, hadn’t thought of that,” Sherlock grimaced. “That _would_ be dreadful.” He kissed her brow. “You will go home, as _you_ , as Violet Hunter. I will think of a way to keep my son safe without separating him from Molly, if that is possible.”

“And?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I won’t have my brother killed,” he grumbled. Then he smiled down at her. “Thank you for reminding me I’m not a machine.” He ran his thumb over the scar on her cheek and then pushed her curls out of her face.

It felt rather nice, having her standing close to him like this, her arms around his waist…

_You don’t_ do _casual sex_ …

_Then what does it mean that I would very much not mind one bit if she and I went back into my bedroom and…?_

But one look at her tired, careworn eyes informed him that she was very much _not_ in the mood.

So he took a polite step back before his stupid _feelings_ started manifesting themselves in a very embarrassing, physical manner that took place below his waistline. “You look dreadful. Are you sure you weren’t injured tonight?”

She shook her head. “No, I just feel like shit. I’m tired and I’ve been outside for too long. I can’t get warm, it feels someone dumped a bucket of ice water on me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock took around step away from her then stood sideways. Gesturing towards the hallway, he said, “Go shower and take my room for tonight. I’m far too restless for sleep right now and I have loads of work to do yet.”

“Don’t overextend yourself,” Violet said, scooting past him so she could go to the bathroom. Then she finally noticed his trail of clothes from the front door to the bath. “ _Really?_ ”

“Good _night_ Vi-O-Let,” Sherlock sing-songed to her as he settled himself down onto “his” chair and booted up his laptop.

Grumbling under her breath, she gathered his clothes on her way back to the bathroom.

Once he heard the shower running, Sherlock laced his fingers across his chest and studied the ceiling. Wondered why how he, a highly intelligent and mature (well, _mature-ish_ ) thirty-nine year old man still have the same ridiculous impulses as a fourteen year old boy.

_Life was so much simpler when I stayed celibate_ , he groused as he checked his emails.

“What?” he said out loud as he read Alice Fowler’s email thanking him for his time but stating that it was no longer necessary for him to pursue the case against her father. She had wired the final payment to his accounts. If more was required due to breach of contract, to please let her know and she would be happy to pay, of course, and once again, apologies for wasting his time.

Sherlock read and re-read the succinct email as Violet finished in the bathroom. He didn’t respond when she called goodnight to him before retiring into his bedroom. He was utterly fixated on Alice’s email.

Then he reached for his mobile and re-read the text he’d received yesterday morning: 

 What are you doing Sunday? - VT

Sherlock put his mobile down and put the laptop on the floor. He closed his eyes, steepled his fingers and went into his mind-palace…

… into a room that greatly resembled the old cinema in Winterbourne-on-Avon. It had been one of his favorite places to visit. It was always a treat when he got to go to the movies, oh, especially when Ford took him because he would buy him all the fizzy drinks and popcorn he wanted… _Don’t tell_ , Ford would say to him and Mycroft with a grin and a wink.

… but in his mind-palace, the old-fashioned theater, with its velvet curtains surrounding the silver screen and the old red-felt covered theater seats, was utterly deserted. He strolled down the middle aisle and stood in front of the screen. The lights dimmed. A projector flicked on and started whirring in the background. Soon a montage of events started playing on the screen…

Violet holding up the newspaper, telling him there was another murder in the West End, probably the beginnings of a serial killer…

Victor, interrupting Sherlock and Violet’s dance in the courtyard, smiling at him, declaring _As I live and breathe, it_ is _you_ …

Victor coming to 221B, on behalf of his sister-in-law for a case…

Victor pawing at him in the lounge, as if they were uni students again…

John with him on the roof of Baker Street, holding out a bottle of water _Who said anything about having any heart-to-hearts? Thought you might be thirsty. It’s hot as hell up here, Sherlock…_

Alice Fowler’s formal, terse Skype interview…except during the bits she spoke about her mother…

_What I want to ask you Mrs. Fowler is: Are you prepared for the very real consequences of what will happen when John and I solve your mother’s murder?_

_Say that again Mr. Holmes…_

“Your mother’s murder,” Sherlock said out loud to no one in the lounge and in his mind palace.

He leaned forward in real life, as if something caught his attention on the television. In his mind-palace, he folded his arms and watched the screen with the same intensity…

Violet recounting for him a long-ago conversation she had with her now-deceased supervisor about Lord Cullen-Culpepper…

_Never married, never had kids. No siblings. Parents are deceased. Only living relative is the daughter of a cousin who moved to New York. She became a US citizen years ago…_

The Earl of Winchester’s only living relative, telling Sherlock and John about how _My father is narcissistic control-freak. He told everyone this story about how my mother was agoraphobic. Well, that was not true. My mother was unwell towards the end, but she wasn’t agoraphobic... He tried to keep us apart at the end, but Mama and I were close. When she became too weak to walk, I defied my father and brought tea to her and still sat with her as we had in the past. But my father paid me back for my defiance…_

Jepthro Rucastle and his obsession for beauty, for mythology, greatness and for his muses…

Mary, rescuing “Destiny” from the mad woman with the foul perfume…

Violet, whinging about Mrs. Toller’s perfume…

Josie Tey, paranoid and traumatized, pacing frantically in front of 221B…

Alana Grant. Martine Hallard. Antonia Pandy. The Burned Girls…

Evie Payne-Ellis…

Violet’s constant complaints of feeling out-of-sorts…

Tristan Holloway’s “addiction”…

Mr. Toller’s arsonist history and his dove-grey suits with the matching ties and handkerchiefs…

John confronting Missy Stroper…

The dogs… John screaming… _Run Sherlock, run for help_ , please…

The boy, Edward, crushing cockroaches for fun… pushing Victor’s daughter into the paddling pool _on purpose_ …

The videos Violet had sent him of Edward acting up and then biting her…

Violet, horrified, looking at a picture the child had drawn _Eddie, who is the lady in this picture?_

_Dunno, just a lady…_

_But Eddie, why is the lady on fire?_

_’Cause that’s what happens to ‘em when they die…_

Alice’s complete lack of enthusiasm about adopting Edward, even though she professed it was her duty to protect the child from their father…

And now Alice’s email… _Mr. Holmes, I do think you for the time you put into this case…_

_But Mama and I were close…_

_But Mama and I were close…_

_Mama …_

“She still refers to her mother by a childish epithet and yet, she wants to give up finding justice for her murderer,” Sherlock murmured, again, out loud in the lounge and in the mind palace.

The last image on the screen was the text from Victor:  

_What are you doing Sunday? - VT_

Suddenly all the pieces fell neatly into place.

“OH!” Sherlock gasped, as if he was taking that first sweet gasp of air after having been underwater for far too long. “Of course, of course. So _bloody_ obvious…”

But instead of feeling elated, as he usually did when he cracked a case, he felt a bone-shattering sorrow compressing his chest.

Because he knew what he had to do now.

He only reached for his mobile and finally thumbed a text back to Victor.

Let’s meet at one o’clock if convenient – SH

And hit Send.

He stood up and dropped the mobile onto his chair and padded towards his bedroom.

Gladstone was stretched out on the foot of the bed. Violet was curled up on her side on the left, her back facing the door.

Sherlock lifted up the duvet, slid into bed and coiled his body around hers. He found her hands and laced his fingers through hers, holding her tight against him.

Groggily, Violet asked “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock lied. “Go back to sleep, Violet.”

“Mmmmkay,” she mumbled, not really awake in the first place.

Sherlock allowed his eyes to flutter shut. Soon he was asleep as well.

And dreaming about Victor.


	22. Elephant in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “First of all, saw this at the news agents’ when I went for my run this morning,” he reached for the tabloid on the coffee table and held it up to Sherlock. “Congratulations.”
> 
> And so it begins, Sherlock’s insides roiled when he saw the huge picture of himself and Violet splashed on the cover of the tabloid. Violet’s face fortunately had been obscured by her hair and sunglasses and for that, Sherlock quietly breathed a sigh of relief to himself.
> 
> Victor opened the tabloid and read the story’s byline “’Holmes’ Bird Restores Pecking Order as Ex-Fiancée is Sent Packing.’ The ‘Daily Fail’ is getting quite poetic, don’t you think...?”
> 
> "Oh what a tangled web we weave  
> When first we practice to deceive." - Sir Walter Scott 
> 
> :^)

Chapter Twenty-Two: Elephant in the Room

17 September 1994  
University of Oxford  
Saturday morning  
6:40 AM

Head bowed, hands deep in his jacket, he walked along the River Cherwell.

Even though he was never a morning person, his early morning walks along the river were the only times he could find peace at university. Even if he encountered a rowing team gliding along the river, they were usually too focussed on their sport to notice him.

His solitary walks along the river were the only times he could _think_ properly.

Everyone at school was so cheerful and boisterous. The lecture halls were crammed with eager, excited new students, chattering about this party or that football game. Even when the din died down and the professor started lecturing, there was still the swirling, choking odors of perfumes, soaps, cologne, body odor, cigarette smoke, fizzy drinks, coffee (and yes, sometimes even alcohol) to contend with.

Mealtimes were even worse. He felt suffocated as people pressed against him, laughing, gossiping and generally enjoying themselves.

For him, it was over-stimulating and exhausting. The bombardment of constant sensory overload threatened to drive him utterly mad.

But there was no one he could talk to about it. His parents wouldn’t understand. Mycroft wouldn’t care. He would just tell him to grow a thicker skin and get over it.

In an act of pure desperation, he had even forced himself to make an appointment with one of the university’s counselors. But he had a flashback about his therapy sessions with Dr. Scott and backed out of his appointment at the last possible second.

And he certainly couldn’t talk to any of his friends about his difficulties, because, well, he didn’t have any.

_So this is what_ being left out _feels like_ , he thought as he heard classmates and upperclassmen joking around in the hallway as he holed himself up in his tiny dorm room, trying to read.

And his parents had been wrong, as usual. The schoolwork _wasn’t_ hard enough to keep his mind occupied. He was bored stupid, which was why he was reading _Anna Karenina_ in the original Russian text instead doing of his chemistry homework.

There was no need for him to do his homework. He had finished his chemistry assignments ages ago. For the entire semester. He couldn’t understand  why the other students didn’t understand the homework. It was so… elementary.

But when he tried to explain it to a girl who was obviously struggling, she had only stared at him as if he had sprouted horns and started breathing fire. He muttered an apology and slunk off.

He did love working in the laboratories though. At least, it was quiet in there as well as in the library.  The lab, the library and the river became his refuges away from a world that was too noisy, too bright and too harsh.

So, he milled along the river, mulling over how exactly he was going to tell his parents he wanted to drop out. _I’m not learning anything. I’m wasting my time and your money. Listen, I have a plan, it’s a good plan and I know I’ll be successful…_

His family, of course, would think he was mad but… _I think I’d be a good actor. My looks are too odd to be a film star but I think I can make a living as a stage actor. I can memorize things quickly and when I lie, I’m_ very _convincing. I have musical talent. I can dance and I suppose I can sing if necessary, although I don’t really like to sing in front of an audience.  Plus, I know I’ll come into my trust fund when I’m twenty-five. I won’t have to starve to death like some other actors. I can take parts that are interesting instead of what pays the bills. I can get a little flat in the West End, where I can study people and their mannerisms. The flat doesn’t have to be fancy. I don’t mind having to take a job to make ends meet until I’m twenty-five… but I can’t do_ this _anymore. I’m just not cut out for uni…_

The thin, dark-haired nineteen year old boy stopped walking and heaved a dramatic sigh. “That won’t work,” he muttered to himself. “They’ll never let me drop out if I tell them the truth.”

He could hear his family’s reactions. Mycroft sneering at him, telling him he wasn’t good enough _to act_ for a living and how angry their parents would be if he did indeed drop out of school…

As the autumn winds gently rustled the tree leaves and the rushes along the river, he could quite clearly hear Mycroft’s harsh admonishments:

_You’re a stupid little boy… Mummy and Daddy are cross…_

The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes and kicked at a clod of dirt. Mother and Father were actually too gentle and naïve to ever become properly angry with him, or Mycroft for that matter.

But his mother would be utterly horrified if he left school. She wouldn’t shout at him but she would purchase him a one-way ticket for a guilt trip… _But sweetheart, you’re so intelligent, why waste your genius on the stage? You can help ever so many people…_

His father might sympathize but he wouldn’t approve. _Son, it’s a cruel business, entertainment. I just don’t think it’s a good idea, acting. Listen, William, you don’t have to go to Oxford, if that’s the problem. There are other schools that are just as good but are a bit smaller if you’re feeling overwhelmed. Or you can always go to America like we talked about. Harvard, maybe?_

Suddenly, he missed his elder brother Ford terribly. Ford would listen, he’d understand…

Or would he? He hadn’t seen Ford in eleven years, after all.  He had absolutely no idea where Ford was, actually. He felt the old resentment starting to  kindle again.

_You left me…_

But his yearning to talk to Ford undermined his anger. As he continued his walk, the dark-haired teen contemplated writing a letter to Ford then asking Mycroft to deliver it to him… he had deduced a very long time ago that Mycroft knew Ford’s location. But he knew that if Mycroft agreed to deliver a letter to Ford, then Mycroft would  read the letter as well. _Acting? You want to drop out of uni to act? Have you taken complete leave of your senses, little brother?_

“OK, so I can’t tell them the truth,” he said out loud to the muddy brown river and the gold and orange autumn leaves hanging on the trees. It was the most he had spoken since he arrived at university. He had been overwhelmed into silence.

Plus, it was hard striking up conversations with other kids when he despised small talk.

The few attempts he had made talking to other students had also been incredibly discouraging. As soon as he deduced what they were really thinking about him, he’d abruptly terminate the conversation and stalk off.

Little wonder too…

_Gosh, he’s skinny. I wonder if he’s had cancer?_

_He looks girly, wonder if he’s a poof?_

_This bloke looks creepy, what the fuck’s wrong with his eyes?_

_Looks like a toffee-nosed trust fund baby. Twat._

_He’s actually quite brilliant… good. I can cheat off of him in calculus._

Sherlock Holmes sighed deeply. Kids his age were such…

“Idiots,” he grumbled.

Then he heard a soft growling behind him.

“What the…?” he turned around, startled.

A bull terrier stood a few paces behind him, his ears flat against his head, hackles up, teeth bared. His black eyes locked on Sherlock’s face.

“G-g-good dog,” he stuttered, taking a step back. He noticed how the dog limped. _Rabbit snare_ , his ultrafast senses informed his brain. _Or fox. Like it matters, he’s out of his mind with pain and is set to attack anything he senses as a threat. Like you, make yourself nonthreatening. NOW._  

“It’s alright,” he crooned as if the injured dog was his beloved Redbeard. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. Look, look what I have for you,” Sherlock dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pastry he had filched from the kitchens before embarking on his walk. “See, look, it’s good, it’s good,” Sherlock dropped the pastry on the grass.

Black nose quivering, the hurt dog limped over to investigate. Then he gobbled up the pastry in one bite. Sherlock smiled. “See? Wasn’t that good?”

Then the dog sprang forward, biting at Sherlock’s muddy jeans.

“AHHH! I’M NOT TRYING TO HURT YOU, YOU STUPID MUTT!” Sherlock howled as the dog’s teeth ripped through the fabric. He tried to shake the dog off but the terrier got a solid hold onto his ankle. “ _GERROFFME!”_  He yelped, his words running together. 

Then a rock came sailing out of nowhere, hitting the dog on the rump. “OI!” A loud, male voice hollered. “Buck, get off him!”

The dog let go of Sherlock. Sherlock hobbled back, trying to keep his balance. He tried to put his weight on his hurt ankle and nearly screamed. When the dog snarled at Sherlock again, he looked desperately around for his savior.

A golden haired young man in running shorts and a sweaty Nirvana t-shirt appeared out of the rushes. He had another rock in his hand as well as a stick. “Buck,” he said warningly, brandishing the stick. “Bad dog. Baaaaaad dog. Get out of here now, Buck.” The dog growled, poised to attack again. But Victor threw the other rock, hitting him in the snout. The dog yipped and whined. He limped off as quickly as he could, whimpering as he scarpered.

Sherlock’s legs gave way and he landed in the dirt onto his backside. “Thanks,” he gasped as the young man dropped the stick and ran to him.

“Yeah, no prob. Dunno what got into old Bucky. He’s the groundskeeper’s dog. He’s usually harmless,” the golden haired boy knelt beside Sherlock and pushed up his tattered jeans to examine his injuries.

“He’s hurt,” Sherlock gasped. “He got into some hunter’s snare and it tore his leg up.”

“Yeah, well, your leg’s all torn up too, come on,” unselfconsciously, Victor wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and helped him stand. “Taking you to see the nurse,” he informed Sherlock as he draped Sherlock’s arm over his own broad shoulders. “Think you can manage?”

“Uh,” Sherlock winced as he tried to put weight on his ankle. It hurt, but he knew the damage was not catastrophic. It could have been so much worse. “Yeah, we’ll just have to go slow.”

“Of course. Come on, easy does it, mate.” 

As the golden haired boy helped him walk to the clinic, Sherlock became acutely aware of the young man’s strong, muscled arms and how oddly clean his sweat smelt. A fresh, athletic perspiration from exercise. The rising sun made his golden hair positively shine.

Sherlock felt a blush warming his cheeks.

Then he remembered, shamefully _I’m not supposed to feel_ that way _about boys_ …

Yet another reason he found it difficult to talk to anyone at Oxford… especially the blokes.

He hated Heathcliff for _making_ him like boys _and_ girls.

_I have to fix this_ , he thought, panic-stricken. _It’s not right. Biologically, it doesn’t make sense to fancy boys. Procreation requires a male and a female, thus the cause of attraction. Attraction between members of the same sex is a recipe for extinction. I_ have _to fix this, I have to stop… besides, some of the kids here already think I’m gay. The older boys have already viciously hazed a few homosexual boys, but of course, they were so flaming, they were setting the drapes on fire by just walking into the dining hall. Still, what would those brutes do to me if they find out I like both boys and girls? Probably kill me. So, I must stop liking both boys and girls… this is an aberration after all, therefore it must be eliminated in order to secure survival, that’s the natural order of the world… right?_

He risked another look at the young man and cursed that the golden haired boy also had lovely blue eyes. _Of course he would…_

He’d had  crushes before, of course. But usually on film stars and athletes (male and female) and he had always kept those fluttering feelings to himself. Mostly to keep Mycroft from mocking him and from hearing the latest variation of his Caring is Not an Advantage speech. 

He had never been attracted to a non-celebrity before. To someone he could actually… touch.

_And of course, it has to be a_ boy, Sherlock berated himself. _Can’t fancy_ a girl _like a normal bloke, can you, Holmes?_  

Then, stupidly, he realized the golden haired boy had asked him a question. “What?”

The blonde boy chuckled. “I said, what’s your name?”

“Oh. Sherlock.”

“Shirley?” 

“N-n-no,” he stuttered, feeling like a fool. But concentration was extremely difficult at the moment. His rescuer’s looks and build really were breathtakingly distracting.

Plus, Sherlock’s ankle really did bloody hurt.

But he managed to correct the young man, “Sherlock.”

“Sher _lock_ ,” the young man rolled the name around his mouth like candy. “Like _lock_ a door?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. Is that Welsh?”

“No. It’s just an odd family name from my dad’s side. Wh-wh-what are you called?”

 “Victor,” the young man said easily and cheerfully. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…my first year.”

“I’ve seen you around. You really don’t need to be so shy. Sitting on your own, like you do.”

“Oh, well, I,I,I,” Sherlock felt completely flustered. “I don’t want to, err …annoy anyone.”

“Well, if you start being annoying, I’ll tell you to shut up,” Victor grinned. “Come on, let’s get you patched up and then breakfast. I want to know about you. You look like an interesting guy.”

A small burst of pleasure began to spread throughout Sherlock’s chest. _Me? Interesting?_

_Well, I suppose I am… but you’re the fascinating one, Victor._

No one his age had ever wanted to talk to him in order to get to know him before.

Intriguing.

_Is this how one makes friends?_ Sherlock wondered as innocently as a small child.

If so, he profoundly hoped his stupid crush wouldn’t ruin it.

**

9 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Sunday morning   
10:39 AM

Unwillingly Sherlock opened his eyes. He usually naturally woke up at ten, unless a case forced him to wake up at some unholy hour. The fact that he had overslept immediately put him in a foul mood. Despite the late hours he usually kept, he rarely enjoyed having a lie-in, especially when there was work to do.

But he had to concede that last night had been a bit more demanding that he had anticipated.

“John,” he said suddenly, bolting straight up out of bed.

Gladstone also perked his head up. His pink tongue lolled out of his mouth.

“Come, Stone,” Sherlock as he pushed the duvet off. “Violet,” he called to her as Gladstone leapt off the bed. “Wake up. I need you.”

 Her response was a steady snore.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Grabbing his second-best dressing gown, he unselfconsciously took Gladstone out in barefoot and in his night-clothes. After having a bit of fun with a paparazzo lurking around 221 Baker Street (“Gladstone, _bellen_!”), Sherlock led the dog back inside, pausing at Mrs. Hudson’s flat to press his ear against the door. He didn’t hear any fighting, but he didn’t hear any talking either. Perhaps both John and Mary had succumbed to exhaustion as well.

He showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and attempted to tame his curls then gave up, as usual. He dressed carefully in his very best black suit and a navy dress shirt. He even spritzed on the cologne The Woman had recommended for him, the one with the sandalwood undertones, a clean scent that made him think of a forest after it had rained.

Not hungry, as usual, he made tea for himself and toast for Gladstone. As Gladstone demolished the stack of toast, Sherlock wrote Violet an extensive note, a to-do list, really. He also tacked on a postscript that he would like pasta for dinner and to please invite the Watsons as they needed to discuss plans for their trip to the Copper Beaches.

Then he heard Irene Adler’s breathy moan from the lounge.

“Ah, right on cue,” Sherlock scratched Gladstone’s ears and went to check his mobile.

There was the text from Victor:

1PM is great!  
Texting you address in a bit  
W/the wife at the moment – VT

Sherlock texted back “OK” and then pulled on his dress jacket. “Behave yourself,” he told the dog who had just padded into the lounge.

Gladstone whined but Sherlock, in flawless German, told him to go find Violet. The dog trotted off, probably to jump back into his bed with his mistress.

Sherlock debated on whether or not he should call Gladstone back to him. Then decided the dog would be a hindrance. He pulled on his dress jacket and locked the door behind him, armed with only his mobile and his wits.

He took the stairs three at a time and returned to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Fearing that Mary would shoot an intruder, he rapped at the door. “Mary, it’s me.”

Mary opened the door a crack then let Sherlock in. She had changed back into the lavender top and khakis shorts she had been wearing when she met Sherlock at Starbucks.

A cursory glance reassured Sherlock that she was not armed.

“How is he?” he said without preamble, going straight into the lounge.

Mary trailed him. “I made him eat a cheese sandwich before he nodded off. He’s been dozing off and on all morning. Can I get you anything? Cuppa tea?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock murmured, studying John’s face and chest. Watching how his eyes moved underneath his eyelids and how his chest moved up and down. The worried crease in-between his eyebrows…

_He’s feigning sleep so he doesn’t have to talk to Mary_ , Sherlock smothered the urge to sigh loudly and dramatically. _Idiot. But this serves my purposes perfectly. Killing two birds with one stone, as they say._

“Do you need to speak to him?” Mary asked anxiously, “Should I wake him?”

“No, let him sleep,” Sherlock said smoothly as he settled into one of Mrs. Hudson’s horrid pink armchairs. Tenting his fingers, he said “I need to bring you up to speed on the case.”

“Me?”

“You,” Sherlock said and he explained how he had secured an invitation not only for himself and his “fiancée” but also for John and Mary as well.

“Fishing?” Mary crinkled her nose. “But John doesn’t like to fish. He doesn’t even like the water, really.  He only went to the lido as a favor to Violet to study the Rucastle boy.”

“I doubt we will have the opportunity to step foot on a boat,” Sherlock said coolly. “In fact, I doubt we four will be at the Copper Beaches longer than two nights.”

“You think you can solve the case in two nights?” Mary crossed her arms and lifting a blonde brow at him.

“I’ve already solved the case. We just need to find the girl.”

“Shouldn’t we just let Lestrade handle it now? Finding the girl?”

“This never was Lestrade’s case. It’s Mason’s and he just threw Alex off of it. His pride has blinded and deafened him to the obvious.”

“Which is?”

“He’s an idiot. Also,” Sherlock rebutted Mary’s next objection before she could even voice it: “The police in Cornwall will be even more incompetent than the majority of the police working for the Met. Plus, I don’t want to give Rucastle any reason for  panicking then murdering and dumping the girl. He may already be planning on speeding up his time-table. I don’t want to inspire him to adjust his schedule further.”

“I don’t know if John can go, his leg, his arm…”

“Oh,” Sherlock rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “I’m sure you will think of some reason why John is limping about. We all know what a fantastic liar you are, now don’t we?” 

Mary swallowed and looked at John, prone on the sofa with his eyes closed. “He wants to leave me, doesn’t he?”

“He thinks he does.”

“Oh,” Mary lowered herself onto the other hideous pink armchair. She bowed her head. “Oh,” she said again, more softly  this time.

“He’s angry, Mary. And rightfully so, you cannot keep lying to him.”

“I already endured this lecture from Violet,” Mary said, but there was no rancor in her voice.

“She can be spot-on about some things. You should listen to her. She is quite practical.”

“And what would have happened if I told him what I had overheard? He would have just gone charging into the fray, like the solider he is.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t marriage supposed to be a partnership? One does not get to make decisions that affect the pair without discussion? Do you really believe John would do something that would affect you without telling you?”

“Well, he certainly didn’t tell me Violet’s actually an _American_.”

“And how does Violet’s true nationality affect you?” Sherlock was the one lifting an eyebrow now. “Besides, I thought that you, of all people, would understand the need to escape an old life.” When Mary looked down at the floor, Sherlock leaned forward. “May I ask you something? It’s a bit personal.”

Mary lifted her big blue eyes up at him. Silently gave him permission to ask.

“What is your real name? Anya is a diminutive, a nickname. What did your parents call you?” When Mary looked at the floor again, Sherlock pressed on “A name is the first gift a parent gives a child.”

“Anzhela,” she finally admitted. “My mother couldn’t pronounce it correctly, so she always called me Anya. My father was Russian, my mother wasn’t.”

“So, not everything you told Violet about your past life was a lie.” When Mary shook her head, Sherlock added, in an uncharacteristically gentle voice, “And not everything about Mary Morstan was a lie either.”

Mary shook her head. “I never felt like I fit into that life, their life,” she whispered. “I became good at it because that’s all I knew, but as a girl, I didn’t like it. My instructors used to call me weak and would ridicule me in front of the other children. Because I had wept when we started using live animals for target practice, I didn’t like seeing the bunnies getting shot. After my parents ‘mysteriously disappeared’,” here Mary made the obnoxious quotation sign with her fingers, “I used to imagine the targets were the people who took my parents. Then I defected, started working for the CIA, but they were no different than the KGB. They just spoke a different language. So I freelanced, built up my golden parachute and got out. And I’ve been _myself_ for the last ten years.”

_Until I met John… then you…_ hovered unspoken in the air.

Mary closed her eyes. “I don’t want my daughter having the same life I had. And I don’t care if he’s your brother, Sherlock; if he continues to stand in-between me and my child, I will kill him.” Now she opened her eyes, the stony, cold look creeping back into her face.

“Normally I’d encourage you to shoot Mycroft,” Sherlock said blithely. “Unfortunately for the pair of us, he saved Marissa’s life.”

“ _What?_ ”

Sherlock gave her (and the pseudo-sleeping John) everything he had learned regarding Maisie’s abduction. How the mole had tipped Moriarty’s people off about Mary going into premature labor. How it was Moriarty’s people and not Mycroft’s who kidnapped the baby. How Anthea had been tricked into murdering Jennifer Boyle, the NICU nurse who had suspected something was not right about the Watson baby’s death. How Maggie Jenner supposedly had been working for Mycroft (but Sherlock strongly suspected she was a double-agent). How Mycroft had assembled a task force to retrieve the infant but because of the mole, no one would tell him where Maisie was now.

“He could be lying, Mycroft,” Mary said, whey-faced.

Sherlock caught John opening an eye but he closed it rapidly when Sherlock tilted his head towards the sofa.

“He could be,” Sherlock agreed, moving his head side-to-side. “But I doubt it. I’ll make him produce proof of life the next time I speak to him.”

“When?”

“As soon as I possibly can,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My brother once again has been meddling in my affairs and I must ask him to cease and desist, immediately. I may be calling on your special services if he does not cooperate. Not to kill,” Sherlock interjected quickly. “Mother would never let me hear the end of it if I had my own brother _murdered_.”

_Oh but it would make things_ easier…

“What has he done now?”

Sherlock flatly told her about his and Violet’s pending nuptials.

It was a good thing Mary’s back was to John at that moment. The stunned expression on his face gave away the fact that he was very much wide awake.

It was quite similar to the face he made when they had found the Literal Elephant in the Room.

But he snapped his eyes quickly back shut when Mary cried out, “What _soap opera_ did he derive that idea from? Is he _mad_?”

“Actually, it’s quite brilliant, although Violet hit the nail on the head last night when she told me how she had informed Mycroft that this idea of his is “medieval’. Arranged marriages have been used in royal families to cement political power and to control potential opponents for centuries. And not just in British history. Julius Caesar married his seventeen-year-old daughter to his greatest rival, Pompey the Great. After the nuptials, Pompey and Caesar immediately became the very best of friends… until the girl died in childbirth. Then Pompey immediately became Caesar’s enemy again once he was free of his child-bride.”

“That’s fascinating,” Mary said in a voice that clearly communicated how uninteresting she thought ancient Roman history was. “This isn’t ancient Rome. Or medieval England, for that matter, how on earth can Mycroft force this? Like I said, has he gone barking mad?”

“It’s about control,” Sherlock said flatly. “He wants to control me, he wants to control her.”

Mary frowned. Sherlock could clearly see how she was mentally adding information up and the sum wasn’t coming out correctly. “What does Violet get from marrying you?” she finally said. “Now that I know a bit more about your _fiancée_ , she doesn’t strike me as the type to agree to this sort of deal without any sort of incentive.” 

“A fair question,” Sherlock leaned back into the pink chair. Mrs. Hudson’s home décor tastes may have still been stuck in the Eighties, but her furniture was sinfully comfortable. “And kudos to you for seeing through the ‘Miss Smith’ façade. Mycroft has wanted to deport Violet since the moment her flat exploded last March. I have been fighting against Mycroft regarding Violet for months now. If she ever returns to America, she will be immediately arrested for a treason which she is most certainly not guilty of committing. But detained she would be and incarcerated God knows where, deprived of all rights. I refuse to let that happen to her.”

“So she marries you…?”

“Mycroft legitimizes her British citizenship. She won’t ever have to worry if someone questions her identification card or driver’s license. She’ll have a legitimate birth certificate and,” Sherlock pulled a face, “A marriage certificate. As long as she stays here, in England, she has political asylum. All she has to do is agree to be my _permanent handler_ ,” Sherlock sneered. “Oh, Mycroft made a pitch to her stating he needed someone like her with her skills and her background to _protect me_.” Sherlock’s nose flared as if insulted. “But really, her job is to _muzzle_ me. Keep me in line. Keep me from embarrassing Crown and Country and from tarnishing our family name.”

“So, that’s what she gets out of Mycroft’s offer?”

“She also conned him into creating a trust fund for her niece, but yes, essentially.”

Mary eyed him, “So… as long as she muzzles you, she’s safe?” she stood up, her arms crossed and held tight against her abdomen. “Sherlock Holmes, you know I can tell when you’re fibbing. I can also tell when you’re leaving something out.”

“Of course I am, but you will have to forgive me for my latest sin of omission,” Sherlock checked his watch. “I’m on a rather tight schedule today and cannot go into any further detail than what I have currently disclosed to you.”

_Also when I have that conversation about the price you put on my head, I’d rather not have John eavesdropping,_ he thought coldly _. I’m sure you would agree, my dear_ Anzhela.

“And,” he stood up as well. “I have a job for you.”

“A job? Me?”

“Well,” Sherlock cast his eyes down at the doctor on the sofa. “I can’t ask John at the moment. Violet has her own tasks to complete. So it’s on you.”

“To do what?” Mary sounded resigned.

“Lady Elise’s toxicology reports are missing from the official police report. When John went to The Met to investigate, he was told they were lost. How convenient that the toxicology reports from Rucastle’s first wife disappeared when it’s apparent his second wife is being drugged?” 

“Can you prove that Tristan Holloway is being drugged against her will? The tabs make her sound like a junkie. John said Violet noticed track marks on Tristan’s arms.”

“I have the proof,” Sherlock said blandly while thinking _It’s upstairs…_

Mary shrugged. ”If he was smart, he would have destroyed the reports.”

“Not,” Sherlock overemphasized the “T” and held up his pointer finger, “If he needs the reports for blackmail purposes, my dear Mary.”

“Blackmail?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock’s eyes shimmered, giving off an almost otherworldly glow, the glimmer he got when he cracked a case wide open. “Rucastle didn’t murder Lady Elise. Not directly.” He dug into his pocket and held out a silver key. “I nicked this from Rucastle while we were playing chess yesterday…”

_Was that only yesterday? Time flies when the game is on…_

“This is the key to their back garden. The passcode to their home security system is 0097. They may have a dog patrolling the house as well. Rucastle likes to starve them so they are mad with hunger and pain. As sentimental as people are about animals, especially abused animals, do not hesitate to put the dog down if he does attack.”

“And why I am going to the Rucastle house?”

“John needs a bit of space, I believe. He needs to work through his anger, at least to get it under control. But more importantly, to get the toxicology reports, _obviously_ ,” Sherlock shook his head at Mary’s obtuseness. When Mary glowered at him, he snapped, “We both agree John can’t. I need Violet to handle something else. You’re the only one I know with the skills set and level head to handle this job. You do have a level head, don’t you? Can you set aside your anxiety about your daughter to save someone else’s child?”

“Oh,” Mary closed her eyes. She stayed silent so long, Sherlock worried he had overplayed his hand. But finally she said “Yes, of course. But,” she opened her eyes. “I don’t know where to start looking for those reports.”

“The last place anyone would suspect to look,” Sherlock said. “Alice Rucastle’s childhood bedroom. I would start with her old toys. Dolls. Stuffed animals. It’s how she hid the money she stole from her father when she started planning her escape, stitched into the belly of one of her dolls.” Sherlock’s mobile hummed. He fished it out of his pocket. His heavy dark brows lifted in surprise as he read the text. “One more thing, Mary. Do not go home.”

“What?”

“Mason not only threw Alex off the case, but he cancelled the surveillance on Toller as well. However, Alex had the good sense to defy Mason and continue the surveillance herself. Apparently, he was spotted entering and leaving your terrace house. Disguised as a plumber.”

_How unoriginal_ , Sherlock thought.   

“What? Why?”

“Three ideas,” Sherlock murmured, checking his watch again. “But now is not the time to discuss.” He slipped his mobile back into his pocket then pulled out his sleek, leather wallet. Fishing a black credit card out, he handed it to Mary and said “Go purchase everything you may need for our excursion to Cornwall. And do not worry about the cost, it’s on my brother. In fact,” a devilish little smile appeared on his lips. “Buy something nice for John. I insist. Make sure it’s _very_ expensive.” 

Mary flipped the card over, eyes widening as she read MYCROFT A HOLMES printed on the card. “Oh dear… Sherlock, I’m not sure if this is a good idea. He doesn’t really like me, you know. Last night probably did not help to improve our relations either.”

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock crossed over to her and pecked her on the cheek. “However, I like you, which is all that matters.”

As he walked off, Mary called after him. “Sherlock, wait!” When the Great Detective whirled around in a neat little pirouette and clasped his hands behind his back, Mary weakly asked, “Why did you forgive me after what happened in Magnussen’s penthouse? Sometimes, well, sometimes I don’t think John has even forgiven me. I know _I_ haven’t forgiven myself.”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock tilted his head, thinking for a moment then added, “Do you know what I heard a different assassin say once?”  When Mary shook her head, he quoted General Shan: “‘What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight? It tells you that they're not really trying.’ That is why I believe, my dear Anzhela, my dear Anya, my dear AGRA and my dear _dear_ Mrs. Mary Watson, if you had really wanted to kill me,” he took out the coin Mary had shot through in the Empty Houses. He flipped it into the air and caught it. “You would have simply shot me in the head.”

Sherlock tucked his lucky charm away, turned elegantly from Mary and exited the lounge.

Mary tried not to burst into tears, realizing Sherlock had staged the entire conversation _for her_.

She also damn well knew John wasn’t really sleeping.

Before he left though, Sherlock called to Mary, “Could you check on Mrs. Hudson’s orchids before you leave for Rucastle’s? Afraid I’m running a bit late now and don’t have the time.”

The door slammed, signaling that the conversation was over and the Game was Back On.

 **

9 August 2015  
Camden Town  
Sunday morning  
12:59 PM

The black cab came to a halt in front of a very modern looking block of flats. The sleek, clean lines of the steel and glass building made it stick out like a sore thumb in this trendy, funky section of London.

But Sherlock knew, had always known, Victor would come back to Camden Town.

It had always been one of his favorite neighborhoods, after all.

As the cab drove off, Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and silently observed the building. This was not the kind of place for a man with a wife and young daughter.

“Let’s get this over with,” he sighed out loud, not caring that the two young women who walked past him gave him strange looks for talking to himself.

He went to the door and found the door buzzer button labeled “V. Trevor” and pressed once. There was a loud click. Sherlock grasped the door handle and let himself in before the door re-locked itself.

Sherlock found the lift easily enough and didn’t even have to wait long for the doors to slide open. Two men walked out, chatting amiably with each other, not even noticing Sherlock. He waited for them to exit and then stepped into the lift, pressing the large button labeled “3”.

Soon, Sherlock was on the third floor. Victor’s flat was at the very end of the hallway. Right next to the stairwell.

_Convenient_ , the detective thought, wondering if Victor picked this flat for just this purpose.

He knocked on the door. Then stifled an impatient sigh as he thought with a tinge of irritation _Oh of course he would dilly-dally when I have things to do…_

 The door opened. “Hi! Sorry,” Victor said, standing aside, letting Sherlock in. He wore a clean white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. He was barefoot and he smiled like fresh laundry. “I was in the back. Unpacking a few things. Come in, come in.”

Sherlock strode in with his usual long-legged steps. He stood in the living room, taking everything in. Obviously only three rooms, the back bedroom, the bath and this room, where the kitchen and lounge were stuffed into one cramped room. His omniscient eyes roamed over the utilitarian furniture and the brand new carpeting. He noted how the room still smelt like brand new paint.

He observed there was no evidence of a female occupying this space. Or a small child.

Or that there wasn’t any evidence of anything personal anywhere in sight.

“Thanks for coming here,” Victor was saying while Sherlock was observing. “My car was stolen.”

“How dreadful,” Sherlock took off his suit jacket. He draped it neatly over a beige armchair then went to the giant picture window. Looked out and saw a stunning view of the parking lot and the block of flats right behind theirs.

“Yeah, it’s been a pain in the arse and I really didn’t feel like pissing away more money on cabs or battling the Tube. Can I get you anything?” Victor asked. “A drink or…?”

“No.”

“Right,” Victor smiled a little, not put off by Sherlock’s rudeness at all. “So,” he spread his arms out when Sherlock turned around. “What do you think?”

“Bit cramped for three people,” Annoyance was added to the rudeness in Sherlock’s voice. “Is this why you interrupted me while I was working? Your new flat?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the only reason. Sherlock, Alice called me yesterday. I tried to talk her out of it, but she doesn’t want you to investigate her mother’s death anymore.”

“Oh that? Pffbbt, old news. I already solved _that_ case. I’m working a different case now. So if that was the only reason why you called me over here, I bid you a good afternoon, Victor.”

Sherlock made to leave, but Victor stood in front of him, stopping him. “No, wait. I… I want to talk to you. I know you can tell this isn’t exactly a place meant for a family.” 

“It’s a _pied-à-terre,”_ Sherlock shrugged, “Obviously.”

“It’s my bolt-hole,” Victor said flatly. “I can’t do it anymore, Sherlock. I can’t live with that stupid cow any longer. I think she’s realized that fact as well. The more emotional space I try to put between us, the clingier she has become. She hates the water and yet, she invited herself along with I took my daughter swimming the other day. I just wanted some time with my daughter on my own and well… ” He smiled bitterly. “This is where you get to say ‘I told you so’. Go ahead, say it.  You’ve been dying to ever since I got engaged.”

Sherlock stayed silent.

“Well…” Victor sounded awkward, which was unlike him. Normally Sherlock was the brusque, gauche one. “I need a drink, if you don’t need one.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Sherlock murmured, closely watching every move Victor made.

Victor deftly concocted a gin-and-tonic. “Like I could ever stop you from doing anything once you’ve made up your mind, stubborn git that you are.” His voice now was affectionate. Feeling more confident with a glass of liquid courage in his hand, Victor crossed over to the sofa and sat down. He took a rather large swallow before speaking. “First of all, saw this at the news agents’ when I went for my run this morning,” he reached for the tabloid on the coffee table and held it up to Sherlock. “Congratulations.”

_And so it begins_ , Sherlock’s insides roiled when he saw the huge picture of himself and Violet splashed on the cover of the tabloid. Violet’s face fortunately had been obscured by her hair and sunglasses and for that, Sherlock quietly breathed a sigh of relief to himself.

Victor opened the tabloid and read the story’s byline “’Holmes’ Bird Restores Pecking Order as Ex-Fiancée is Sent Packing.’ The ‘Daily Fail’ is getting quite poetic, don’t you think?”

Sherlock held his tongue.

“There’s also a blurry pix of Miss Smith’s left hand. Looks like some sort of ring, the rags are speculating that it’s a diamond ring. Does that mean you’re the engaged one now?” When Sherlock nodded, Victor let the tabloid drop on the coffee table. He picked his drink back up. “Now I get to be the one who tells you that you don’t love her.”

Sherlock still stayed quiet.

Unnerved, Victor took another fortifying drink then said, “Look, I know I don’t have any right to ask you for anything. But I need your help. I’m not going to last much longer in my marriage. I would have left her years ago, but then my daughter was born and of course, the ruddy pre-nup, that you warned me about. Go ahead. Another golden ‘I told you so’ moment.”

Sherlock stayed eerily still and utterly silent.  

“Right,” Victor said, remembering how Sherlock could literally go days without speaking. “I need to end this farce of a marriage. But if I walk out now, I’ll lose my daughter not to mention I’ll be ruined financially. I need your help, Sherlock.”

“I’m not a solicitor,” Sherlock finally said.

“But you’re a private detective,” Victor burst out. “And I need information, _leverage_. Something that will convince Patricia and her family to let me walk away clean,” Victor stood up now, his eyes pleading. “You are the only one that is clever enough to find that kind of information.”

“I solve crimes, I don’t blackmail people,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not what I’m asking you to do, I…” Victor made a guttural sound of frustration and ran his fingers through his golden hair. “Sherlock,” he said slowly and calmly. “I don’t want to blackmail Patricia. But your mind works in ways I can’t even comprehend. Surely, you can figure out a way I can end this marriage without complete financial ruin or emotional damage done to my daughter. I don’t want this to get ugly and her parents would make sure it got ugly. They’re the ones who shoved that lawyer down our throats in the first place,” he added bitterly.

“If I agree to assist,” Sherlock said cautiously, “What will you do in the meantime? This is something that will not occur overnight.”

“Well, that’s why I got this bolt-hole,” Victor said, looking a little too pleased with himself. “Patricia adamantly refuses to move to London, even to Chelsea. But I managed to convince her to compromise and we got a house in Cheltenham. I told her that was too much of a commute for me and that this _pied-à-terre_ is necessary. I’ll stay in London during the week, work, salt away some money so I won’t be completely wiped out if the worst case scenario occurs and…” he shrugged. “I had hoped I could see you, but then I saw that tabloid this morning when I went for my run and…” he trailed off, looking at his bare feet. “It was a fool’s hope, really. I know you have your own life now. It was stupid of me to presume that you even wanted anything to do with me. After how we ended things, and don’t lie and say you don’t remember that row we had when I bailed you out of jail.” Victor now snapped his head up and locked his eyes on Sherlock’s. “I also know full well where you ended up after that.”

Now Sherlock looked away, fixing his eyes on the ugly clock on the wall.

“I’m not going to tell you don’t love Violet,” Victor said softly. “I know you, I can tell when you care about someone. You look at her the same way you used to look at me.”

Sherlock snapped his attention fully back onto Victor.

Victor’s smile was sad now. “It’s OK, really. I get it. I didn’t want to admit it, but you’ve moved on. Things change and I have to let go of this stupid fantasy that you’ve been waiting for me.”

“Once your divorce is complete,” Sherlock asked in a hesitant, soft-spoken tone very few people had ever heard him use, “Would you stay here in London?”

“No,” Victor shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. “I would go back to New York.”    

“Oh,” Sherlock turned away from Victor and returned to the window. With his back to Victor, he asked, “Would I like New York?”

“What?” Victor nearly dropped his glass.

“Violet and I aren’t really engaged,” Sherlock said, back still turned to him. “It’s for a case.”

“ _What?_ ”

“She is important to me, but she’s not really my fiancée.”

Victor carefully set his nearly empty tumbler on the coffee table and approached Sherlock. “What are you saying?”

“That you are correct. That things change. And I’ve changed my mind about several things.”

“Like… like what, Sherlock?”

He stood so close now that Sherlock could feel Victor’s breath on his neck.

Sherlock shivered.

“Like… children.”

Victor stood stock-still, utterly gobsmacked. “ _What?_ ”

Barely audible, Sherlock asked Victor, “How do you feel about a little brother for Leigh?”

“How do I feel? I’ve always wanted more kids, but not with _her_. Sherlock, if you’re messing about with me, I swear to God I’ll-”

“I’m not,” Sherlock still didn’t turn around, but his head lowered. “Messing about. I’ve grown quite a bit since _that_ overdose. Plus being in hiding for two years does shift one’s priorities. I don’t want to be here anymore. In London, on my own.”

Carefully, Victor said “But you’re not on your own. You’re with Violet.”

Sherlock shrugged. “As I said, I am fond of Violet and she is of me. We work well as a team, but I feel she and I work better as friends than as a romantic couple. I deduced she has felt the same for a while now, but doesn’t know how to tell me. She’s considerate, she,” he laughed gruffly, bitterly. “Doesn’t want to hurt my feelings,” but then continued in his normal tone of voice. “She is also entirely practical. Neither one of us can afford to live on our own. Consulting detective work is not as lucrative as one might think.” 

“Blew through your trust fund already?” there was a teasing tone to Victor’s voice. But Sherlock caught the tremble of concern underneath it.

He finally turned around. “My parents never stopped the Tough Love Routine after my last overdose. I won’t receive a penny from them until they die and even that is not certain. After he forced me out of my Great Hiatus, Mycroft also  froze _all_ of my other assets, including the trust fund. What I live off of comes completely from my work. Problem with that?” Sherlock lifted his black brows.

Nodding, Victor took a step back and rubbed his nose, as if trying to prevent a sneeze. “No, of course not,” he said as he glanced over his left shoulder, checking the time. “Sorry, I just need to make sure I’m home in time… I don’t want to raise Patricia’s suspicions yet. But about what you were saying, Sherlock,” he smiled at the detective. “It’s not a problem, the money. I suspect Mycroft froze your accounts to control you, as he’s always tried to control you.”

Sherlock looked at the floor now then nodded.

“Don’t worry, love,” Victor whispered, coming close to Sherlock again.

Sherlock felt everything inside his chest constrict… _love_ …

“I have money,” he cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand and ran his thumb over his cheekbone. “I have a small nest egg, in an offshore account. Pats doesn’t know, no one knows. Well, except for you, now. It’s not the massive fortune your parents have and I will take a hit with the divorce, even if we find a way around the pre-nup. But it’s enough for us to live off in New York, if we’re frugal. And that’s including my daughter. I’m not leaving without her.” 

“What about your parents?” Sherlock asked lowly. “What about your father?”

“Fuck him,” Victor said vehemently. “I’m done. With him, with them, all of it, the lies, dancing to their tune,” anger smoldered in his normally clear blue eyes. “If he can’t accept who I am after all this time, they can all rot. I haven’t seen them once since I’ve been back in England.” He cradled Sherlock’s face with both his hands now. “You’re the only one I wanted to see.”

“This will take some time,” Sherlock whispered. “I can’t just up and leave, not with…”

“Jim Moriarty, I know, I know. God, that makes me sick, what that bastard did to you. How can I help? Tell me.”

“Stay clear, stay safe,” Sherlock’s eyes became quite bright and wet suddenly. “He’s already targeted my best friend. I can only imagine what he would do to… to you. And your daughter.”

Victor paled. Then he pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s, “Jesus Christ.”

“But I will capture him, I will deliver him to MI-6,” Sherlock still couldn’t speak above a whisper. “I will get you out of that pre-nup agreement and we will leave. I promise.” He cleared his throat. “There are other loose ends I need to bind up as well. Violet, of course, it would be grossly unfair to her just to throw her aside.”

“Of course, of course.”

“And John,” Sherlock added. “He is not only my best friend, but he’s also my partner and not just with the cases, but in the legal sense as well. I will have to dissolve our business partnership. That will take time. And, well, he… might not take it very well, my leaving. Again.”

“Well, you’re not faking your death this time,” Victor reminded him. “And John’s always welcome to visit, of course. We can show him the sights. New York’s a great city. You’re going to love it.”

“Maybe I could talk him into moving with us…” Sherlock mused, encircling Victor’s wrist with his long, nimble fingers. “He’s on the outs with his wife as well,” then he smiled at Victor. “Ironically, he was discussing leaving his wife just last night. If he’s serious, well… he and I could continue our work in New York while you start up your real estate firm.”

“How did you know I wanted to start my own firm… oh,” Victor shook his head slightly. “Stupid. Of course. You deduced it,” he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“It would solve a lot of problems if John came with,” Sherlock said, “Violet too.”

“Your soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend? Are you serious?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Why not? Like I said, she’s very practical. And she’s a fairly adequate detective as well. Also, an added bonus for us, she does have childcare experience. But,” he smiled ruefully, “I’m just thinking out loud of course. There’s much we still need to discuss.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m glad. That there’s so much we need to talk about. I called you over, thinking that we were going to be saying goodbye. But instead, we get to plan a future.”

Sherlock gave him a small, shy smile, then closed his eyes and kissed Victor.

Kissing him like this was just as he remembered, back in the old days. Before the drugs, before the Trevors’ homophobia and before Mycroft’s power-plays interfered with their lives. Back when it was just _them_.

The two of them against the world.

“How long can you stay?” Victor rasped, holding him close, running his hand down Sherlock’s back. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I do have a little time before I need to meet Patricia.”

“I have to leave now,” Sherlock pressed a kiss against Victor’s throat. “I’m sorry. I’m working. I have a lead I must pursue.”

“Moriarty,” Victor now gazed his nails lightly over Sherlock’s back. Sherlock shivered again, he always loved the sensation of having his back scratched.

“Mmm,” was all he could muster. He rested his head on Victor’s shoulder.

“Be careful. I couldn’t stand to lose you again. Not now.”

Sherlock lifted his head to give Victor a long, lingering kiss, full of promise. “I’ll text you.”

As Sherlock put his suit jacket back on, Victor said “Remember, going forward, I’ll be in London Mondays through Fridays. I have to go home on the weekend to play the part of the doting husband. But I wouldn’t like it if I thought I wasn’t going to see you before the divorce is final.”

“We’ll have to be discreet, for both our sakes. And I don’t like shagging during cases. It’s distracting.”

“Of course,” Victor rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Just like your No Snogging During Finals rule in uni. Jesus, some things don’t ever change.”

“Very true, Victor,” Sherlock opened the door. Eying him up and down one last time, he said “Some things never change.” 

Sherlock shut the door behind him. All emotion, all sentiment vanished from his face in a blink of an eye. Even the tears had quickly dried up.

“No,” he said coldly to himself as he walked to the lift. “Some things _never_ change.”

**

9 August 2015  
The Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew   
Sunday afternoon  
2:43 PM

Molly Lestrade was glad to be called into work. Performing autopsies took her mind off of her other troubles.

She didn’t even mind she had been called in because that arsehole Bodley had called in, claiming he had the flu.

“Skived off with Peggy from Derm, more like it _,”_ Dr. [Choudhury](http://genealogy.familyeducation.com/surname-origin/choudhury) had groused when he called Molly, begging for a favor. “Had a chat with her supervisor and found out Pegs called in with the flu as well this morning. Molly, I hate to have you come in on a Sunday, especially if it ends up being a quiet day, but thanks to Bodley, I’m short a pathologist.”

Molly refrained from tartly reminding her boss he was about to be short a pathologist for twenty-six weeks when she went on maternity leave.

Instead she had said “No problem,” as Greg looked at her over the newspaper, lifting his silvery eyebrows questioningly at her. “Give me about an hour. I’m still in my pyjamas.”

Now Molly wore scrubs and was peeling her blue latex gloves off. Binning the blood-stained gloves, she sighed and tried to stretch her aching back. It had not been a quiet day after all. There had been a multiple vehicle-accident. Molly had been neck-deep in crushed skulls, punctured organs and shattered vertebrae most of the day.

But, strangely enough, the work comforted her. The precision of her tasks, the ritual of routine soothed her frazzled nerves. One found it difficult to worry about home invasions, dead pets and a criminal mastermind when one held someone else’s brain in a metal pan.

Now, the only things on Molly’s mind were tea, dinner and a long soak in the bath.

“Well, little one, what are you in the mood for tonight?” Molly crooned, running her hand over her belly. She had gotten into the habit of having one-sided conversations with her baby. “Mummy’s not cooking so it’s take-away tonight. And I utterly refuse to have Thai or Indian. I already have the most ghastly heartburn.”

She pulled her lab coat back on and pushed through the morgue doors. As she made her way towards her little office, she surprised herself by yawning. She hadn’t expected to feel utterly exhausted. But it was a good tired, a fatigue brought on by a productive day at work.

Molly actually enjoyed her job, despite its grisly and depressing nature.

Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t wait to get home and get back into her pyjamas.

_Especially now I’m the size of a house…_

As insecure as Molly had been about so many things in her life, surprisingly her body had never been one of them. She had always been small and petite and she had kept her figure slim by eating sensibly and doing reasonable exercise when she could find the time. She hadn’t expected the weight gain to disconcert her so much, but then, she had never been pregnant before. Hadn’t really known what to expect when her body started stretching and expanding and rearranging itself inside and out to make room for the growing baby. Oh she had read the medical text books and did her time in the OB/GYN section during her medical internships and skimmed all the obnoxious baby books well-meaning friends and family had foisted upon her.

_But you really_ don’t know _what it’s like, until it happens to you_ , Molly thought, stopping at a vending machine, her stomach growling.

“OK, so you want chocolate,” Molly put the money in the machine and watched the Cadbury Fruit & Nut fall to the bottom of the machine. “Oh, damn,” Molly sighed before beginning the miserable task of bending over. It wasn’t painful, just… so undignified.

But Molly managed to retrieve her sweet with the minimum of awkwardness. Munching her chocolate, she made her way to her office.

And stopped dead in her tracks when she saw a note with her name taped to her office door.

Recognizing the elegant handwriting, she snatched the note off the door and unfolded it:

I’ve been advised it’s unwise  
to startle a gravid woman.  
So let this note serve as sufficient warning  
that I’m inside – SH

Molly wiped the chocolate off her lips and took a deep, shuddering breath.

_Don’t be stupid, Molly, he probably has new information about the break-in_ , she told herself. _It will be fine, he’ll be his old arrogant, high-handed self, I’ll tell him off for saying horrible things and he’ll flounce off in a sulk… oh, but I hate this tension between us. I really do._

Then she squared her shoulders.

_Then fix it_ , she ordered herself.

She opened the office door, expecting to see Sherlock standing in the middle of her office with his know-it-all sneer firmly fixed on his face. Or worse, at her desk, on her computer, after he had cracked her pass code.

Of course, she was wrong.

He was knelt down by her bookshelf, thumbing through one of her medical tomes.

“Sherlock?”

“Could I borrow this?” he held up a thick, blue book with _Analytical Forensic Toxicology_ embossed in black letters on the cover. “I don’t have this edition.”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Molly shook her head, the conversation clearly not starting the way she thought it would. “Is that why you’re here, to borrow a book?”

Sherlock looked at the book then ran his hand down the cover, “No. Of course not,” 

“Errr, OK,” Molly found herself getting tongue-tied, just like she used to in the old days when she got flustered. “Well, do you want to get coffee and talk then? Or, I guess you’d be getting coffee, I’ll just be getting a soft drink, caffeine-free, naturally, or maybe just juice, seeing that I’m, um…”

“Am I really a good man, Molly?”

He had spoken so quietly Molly had almost not heard him. She nearly asked him to repeat himself but then he looked up at her. The icy haughtiness was stripped away, revealing a child-like vulnerability that Molly hadn’t seen since right before The Fall _…_ and then saw again when she finally told him about their child.

_There’s nothing wrong with you. You must stop saying things like that and that you’re a sociopath, because you’re not. You are a good person, Sherlock Holmes… but I’m afraid you are right…  You would be an awful father, especially if the child wasn’t a proper genius like you. You’re not very patient with us ordinary people…_

Molly closed the door and pulled up the chair in front of her desk. She eased herself down, painfully conscious of Sherlock watching her. “I believe that you’re trying,” she finally said. She tore a bit of foil off the chocolate bar, just to have something to do with her hands. “I think that counts for something. I think that’s more than what most people do.”

“John is a good man and he doesn’t have to try,” Sherlock lowered himself completely to the floor now, sitting with his back to Molly’s bookshelves, his long legs pulled as close to his chest as possible. He put the toxicology book down and wrapped his arms around his legs. “So is your husband, a good man without trying.”

“I don’t think it comes easy for either one of them,” Molly said. “You shouldn’t compare yourself to John and Greg, Sherlock. There’s no scientific formula for being a good person. We all just kind of fumble around, hoping that we’re getting it right,” she ran her hand down her belly again. “That doesn’t mean we don’t make the best choices all the time either.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, his eyes verdigris in the awful florescent lighting of Molly’s office. “I do have a difficult choice to make. In order to protect someone who is… well, for lack of a better word, _important_ to me, I must savagely hurt someone else. I’ve been informed that what I have to do actually would be considered unforgiveable in the eyes of most people.”

“And what’s that?” Molly asked gently.

“To break a heart,” he said flatly. “Which is complete rubbish to even be concerned about the sentiments of others, and yet, I loathe going through with it. What does that make me?”

“Human,” Molly informed him. “Sherlock, you’ve been down this road before. You knew it would devastate John, making him witness your suicide. But if you hadn’t, Moriarty would have killed him. And Greg and Mrs. Hudson. You didn’t want to trick John or hurt him. But it was either that or watch your best friend die.”

“Does it get easier, this _road_?” A trace of Sherlock’s familiar venom was back in his voice.

The sourness in his voice oddly reassured Molly. “No, ‘fraid not.”

Sherlock made himself look at Molly’s baby bump, to really look at it, observe it for the first time. He had always averted his eyes from her growing abdomen after she had dropped the baby bombshell on him. “You’ve been traveling down this same road yourself, I believe.”

Molly nodded then held out the chocolate to him.

He broke off a piece and handed the rest of the chocolate bar back to her. “It was easier, when I didn’t care about people,” he muttered before putting the piece of candy in his mouth

“Was it, Sherlock? Was it really easier? Being alone all the time?”

“It was easier, but it was also… emptier.” Sherlock leaned his head against the bookshelf.

Molly broke off a square for herself and ate it. Then she held the candy back out to Sherlock but he shook his head. Just as Molly broke off another square, Sherlock said, “I didn’t know Greg considered me a friend. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, just as I don’t know what I did to deserve your friendship or John’s. But I don’t think Greg considers me a friend now,” he looked pointedly at Molly’s belly. “Or ever will again. I knew he still fancied you, it was obvious.” His stormy eyes shifted away. “I should have never gone to your flat that night. It was irresponsible.”

“I let you in,” Molly said simply.

Sherlock studied the tips of his shoes.

Molly looked at the square of the Fruit & Nut bar she had broken off. She wasn’t hungry anymore but she ate the piece of chocolate anyway. “Sherlock? I might as well ask since you’re here, but sometime, when you get a chance… could you please send me your family medical history? Discreetly, of course. But I want, I mean, I need to know if we need keep an eye open for anything like diabetes or asthma-”

“Hyperacuity,” Sherlock interrupted her softly. “Hyperacusis and scent sensitivity as well. I don’t have any known allergies, but I use fragrance free detergents. Products with perfume make my skin itch, but it’s not a true allergy. Cancer runs on my mother’s side of the family, but it’s usually self-inflicted. My maternal side of the family all smoked like chimneys, including my own dear mother, but she kicked the habit when she became pregnant with Mycroft. What else, oh yes, my paternal grandfather had a fatal heart attack when he was fifty-two, I never met the man. He died before I was born. And Mycroft says he’s hypoglycemic, but that’s a lie. He’s just a fatty who likes his cake.”

“Oh,” Molly said faintly. “Um, OK. Wow, I wasn’t ready for all that. I, I, I should have been taking notes, I guess.”

“I’ll forward a copy of my medical history to you,” Sherlock closed his eyes. “When I get back to London, I’m going out of town for a case tomorrow. Should be back in two, three days.”

Molly nodded but asked “That first bit, the hyperacuity?”

“Not sure if that it hereditary or not, haven’t researched that bit yet…” _Because I never thought that information would ever be_ necessary, he thought bitterly. Out loud, he said: “Just be prepared, especially when he starts nursery school. He will overwhelmed by all the new stimuli. He may act out but ignore what the daft teachers say about attention-deficit syndrome or autism. He doesn’t need medication or therapy. He just needs a bit of patience as he learns to sort through all stimuli, to learn what he needs to remember and what he needs to disregard. He won’t understand why he sees the world differently from everyone else. But he doesn’t need to be _managed_. He’s just… learning how to adapt to his environment.” Sherlock’s nose crinkled and his brows beetled together as he thought for a moment. Then he added quietly, “He’s not broken and he’s not a…”

_Freak._

The word hovered in the air, heavy and invisible, yet poisonous. Like carbon monoxide.

“Sherlock?” she shook her head, making her ponytail swish back and forth. “Do you think Greg and I are going to love him less because he might be a bit different?”

“No. Of course not,” Sherlock muttered again, suddenly getting to his feet. “You and Lestrade will perform your parental duties to the upmost of your abilities. He could be born with wings and horns and you two would make him feel like a prince.” 

“Are you going to love him less if he ends up just being an ordinary little boy?” The words popped out before Molly could help herself.

“I don’t count,” he reminded her.

“Yes you do! It’s just that…everything is just so… ” Molly floundered as Sherlock bent down to pick up the toxicology textbook. Frantically she thought _Are we making a mistake? Cutting Sherlock out? He might have insights about the baby that Greg and I won’t…_

But Jim Moriarty’s evil, grinning face popped into her head and her heart nearly stopped.

It just wasn’t possible, at least right now, while the possibility of Moriarty being alive existed. 

“Apologies for wasting your time,” Sherlock said, now trying to squeeze between Molly and the wall to get to the door. Her office really was quite cramped, almost claustrophobic at times.

But Molly grabbed his coat sleeve, “Sherlock,” she said in a wavering voice.

She wanted to say _I never meant to hurt you. I wish it could have been you and me raising this baby. Or this baby was Greg’s and I wouldn’t be so bloody scared all the time. Scared that Jim is going to come for your son and take him from me. Scared that Greg doesn’t believe me when I tell him I love him and that I married him because I love him… And scared that he’s also lying to me. That deep down he really resents me for carrying your child and not his. I am afraid my marriage may end before it has a chance to even begin…_

_But mostly I’m terrified that no matter what I do, what you do, what we all do, we’re going to lose our little boy in the end anyway…_

_I wish I would have made you take me with you after The Fall… I should have fought harder._

But instead, she said “He’s kicking. Do… do… do you want to…?”

She pulled his hand towards her tummy.

“Um…” Confusion crept into his eyes. “I don’t know… if that would be… appropriate.”

“It’s OK,” Molly whispered. “I want you to…truly.”

Sherlock put the book on Molly’s desk and crouched down beside her. He splayed his hand over her round belly, surprised by its firmness. 

“He must have stopped,” Sherlock started to take his hand away when he didn’t feel anything, but Molly pressed her free hand on top of his.

“He likes it when you talk to him. We’re thinking about calling him Henry. Is that alright? Do you like that? Is that a nice, normal name?”

“Not going to call him Harry or anything ridiculous like that?”

“Oh no. Between Prince Harry and Harry Potter, no.”  

“Harry…who?”

“Harry Potter? From the books and films, surely you must…?” But when she saw his befuddled expression, she exclaimed “Sherlock, you really need to read a book or see a film just for pleasure once in a wh-.”

“He’s moving,” Sherlock interrupted her again.

But his voice held nothing but pure wonderment. 

Molly smiled. “See, I told you. He likes hearing people’s voices.”

“Henry,” Sherlock tried the name out. He nodded. “I do. I do like it. It’s not silly or ordinary.”

“Good,” Molly’s smile deepened.

“Henry,” Sherlock said again. “Hello, Henry,” he said to Molly’s belly. “I’m your f-”

Then he froze.

Then quickly stood up, snatched the book off Molly’s desk and left, leaving the door open.

Helplessly, Molly watched Sherlock’s retreating back as he disappeared down the hall.

Fighting tears again, Molly ran her hand down her belly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

But she didn’t know who she was apologizing to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There MIGHT be another possible hiatus because of the holidays; I'm not 100% sure I'll be able to post next Sunday. If I don't, have a very happy holiday and thanks again for reading and commenting :^)


	23. Nothing Stronger than Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mycroft turned his soulless black eyes onto Victor. “So this is how you repay my brother’s love...”"
> 
>  
> 
> Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllssssssssssssssss...
> 
> And a trigger-warning since an evil bastard makes a cameo in this chapter....

Chapter Twenty-Three: Nothing Stronger than Glass

9 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Sunday afternoon  
3:39 PM

Violet woke with a start.

It had been ages since she had slept that long and that deeply.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, looking at the alarm clock on Sherlock’s nightstand. She yawned and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Then she spied the paper next to the clock. She crawled over to Sherlock’s side of the bed, dimly trying to determine if Sherlock had spent the night in bed with her or if she had been dreaming. She pushed her unruly hair out of her eyes and snatched the note off  the nightstand. Recognizing Sherlock’s elegant handwriting, she silently read as Gladstone ambled into the room and jumped onto the bed next to her:

“My dear Violet,

If convenient, please pack for the pair of us clothing and toiletries to last for two weeks for our “holiday” to the Copper Beaches. Please be advised we will probably only be there for approximately two days. Also, I will require you to go shopping for the following items whether or not it is convenient for you:

Protein bars  
Granola bars  
Dried fruit   
Associated nuts  
Saltine crackers   
Juice boxes and/or pouches (pouches are preferred, easier to pack)  
Mustard seeds or mustard (seeds are preferred, but mustard will do)  
Fizzy drinks (preferably ginger ale or club soda)  
Dog biscuits (yes, Gladstone will be accompanying us)  
Freezer bags  
Duct tape or packing tape  
Sharpie pen (can’t find mine)  
Latex gloves  
Bottle of wine (the more expensive the better. Red or white I’ll leave to your judgment)  
Toothpaste (we’re out)  
Tampons (you’re out)

-       SH

PS: The Watsons will be joining us for dinner tonight. Please prepare spaghetti, salad and toast. Also, please purchase the items needed for tonight’s dinner since you’re going to be out doing the shopping anyway.

PPS: Purchase a bottle of whisky for John and scotch for yourself.

PPPS: I left cash underneath Billy the Skull. Should be a sufficient amount.”

Violet scratched her dog’s head. “We’ve been engaged less than a day and he’s already trying to make me into a housewife,” she complained to Gladstone.

Gladstone thumped his tail against the bed.

Violet finally crawled out of bed and made her way to the shower, washing last night off  her. She took the time to thoroughly straighten her hair.

After dressing in “Miss Smith”-approved pink top and khakis skirt, Violet investigated the kitchen cupboards to find them nearly empty, except for dog food, tea and sugar. She opened the fridge to find expired milk and a freezer bag containing a pig’s head.

“I don’t even want to know,” Violet shut the fridge. “I’m just going to pretend I didn’t see that.”

She slipped on her socks and trainers then whistled for Gladstone. She snapped his leash on his collar and took him outside. After Gladstone finished relieving himself, Violet let herself back into 221 Baker Street, but she went to Mrs. Hudson’s flat instead of Sherlock’s.

She knocked on the door, calling in her “Miss Smith” voice, since 221C was occupied. “Hello? It’s me, Violet.”

She pressed her ear against the door. Faintly, she heard John call back, “It’s open.”

Violet came into the lounge. “I can keep him on the leash, if that makes you feel better,” she said in her true voice.

John held up the remote and switched the telly off. “It’s alright. I don’t mind Gladstone.”

Violet unclasped the leash and Gladstone made a beeline for John, nuzzling his hand. “Hey, boy, how are you?” he ran his hand over the dog’s sleek head.

“I think the real question is: how are you?” Violet grabbed the foot stool and moved it next to John. She noticed the notepad on his chest and pen tucked behind his ear, but didn’t comment.

As she sat down, John heaved a sound that was between a sigh and a groan. “Like utter shit.”

“Where’s Mary?”

“Out. Sherlock sent her on an errand.”

“What kind of errand?” But when John told her, she immediately groused “Great, she gets the interesting job and I get the shopping. That’s bullshit.” Feeling John’s glare, she said “I’m kidding, John. Did Sherlock get you up to speed with everything that went down?”

“In a way.”

“And where are you at with all of this?”

“Not sure, Sherlock admitted he was holding some information back, but he didn’t have time go into details,” John admitted. “It was pretty bare bones what he disclosed. Moriarty took Maisie and Mycroft has retrieved her, but that bureaucratic cocksucker supposedly doesn’t know where my daughter is now.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, how do you really feel?” Violet deadpanned. But after receiving a death-glare from John, she quickly asked, “Do you think you’re going to be up for tomorrow and the next couple of days?”

“I really don’t have much of a choice, do I?” John looked at his puffed-up-ankle.

“Do you need me to change your bandages or anything?”

“No, Mary took care of that before she left.”

“Are you and Mary going to be able to pull off the Happily Ever After act?”

“Again, don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Not right now,” Violet admitted.

“Do you think you and Sherlock can pull off the Happily Ever After act?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. God, everything is such a mess right now.”

“Yeah. But, we keep going, Violet,” John said quietly. “Like we always do. We’ll make it up as we go along. I just keep telling myself to focus on finding Evie Payne-Ellis then I’ll worry about all the other rubbish I have to deal with.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“It’s a shit plan.”

Violet laughed. “Yeah, but at least it’s a plan. Look, I’m starving. I doubt either Mary or Sherlock will be back before dark. I’m going to make a Speedy’s run. Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” John admitted.

Violet pulled her mobile out of her skirt pocket. “Great, I’ll order and go get it. Then I’ve got some errands to run for His Majesty. Are you going to be OK on your own?”

“I’ve been on my own most of today. It’s been kind of nice.” John hated to admit that Sherlock had been right, that he needed quiet to sort out his thoughts. “Just been,” he patted the notepad. “Jotting things down, trying to dismantle the rat’s nest in my head.”

“May I?” Violet gestured to the notepad.

John hesitated then put his hand over it. “No… I’d rather not. But I will tell you, it’s a pros and cons list on whether or not I should stay married.

“Oh,” Violet flushed. “Sorry.”

“S’OK.”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry I deceived you. I should have told you right away, about Maisie.”

“You already apologized for that.”

“You’re still pissed though.”

John smiled. “Yeah. I am. Still pissed about that. But I also understand you were in an impossible situation.” He then added dramatically, “But if you don’t fetch me something to eat, quickly, I shall waste away and for that, I will never forgive you.”

“Alright, alright,” Violet scrolled through her Contacts list, looking for Speedy’s. “Jesus, stop. I already live with one drama queen.”

“Oh, before you go,” John pointed to a metal box on the seat of one of Mrs. Hudson’s ugly pink chairs. “Mary left that for you. She said you might want to have a look through it.”

“Did she already go through it?”

“Yeah, but she said there was nothing in there but old family pictures. Nothing that would have led us to Maisie.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Violet said as she held the mobile to her ear.

But her heart started to pound wildly. She hid her growing excitement from John.

Old family pictures… _Ford_. 

Last night was not a complete waste of time after all.

But the photographs would have to wait until after her shopping and cooking was completed.

In fact, it was very late at night before Violet got a chance to examine the contents of the box Mary had stolen from the Holmes’ library. It had been already well after dark by the time Mary got back. Looking like the cat that had snatched not just the canary, but the hamster and guinea pig as well, she handed Sherlock the toxicology reports she had found in Alice’s old bedroom.

Since Sherlock insisted on waiting for Mary before eating dinner, it was nearly nine-thirty before they got to tuck into the pasta, Caesar salad and warm garlic toast Violet made. Or to be more accurate, John, Mary and Violet tucked in. Sherlock drank tea, fed his garlic toast to Gladstone and read the toxicology reports. 

It was only when the Great Detective had retired for the evening and the Watsons went to spend another uncomfortable, awkward night together in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, that Violet grabbed a tumbler and the bottle of scotch, then claimed Sherlock’s chair for her own. Turning on the television as a cover story in case Sherlock woke up, she then opened the metal box Mary had stolen from the Holmes estate.

And discovered she had hit metaphorical gold.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, rifling through photographs and legal documents, all proving the existence of one Matthew Sherrinford Holmes.

_Sentiment_ , she realized. She remembered Sherlock said Ford was Mycroft’s best friend. Sentiment and arrogance had undermined Mycroft at last.

_Asshole never thought anyone was smart enough to break into his precious castle,_ Violet thought gleefully as she thumbed through old, yellowing photographs of the Holmes boys at various ages. _How do you like me now_ , brother-in-law?

But the next picture she had flipped was Sherlock and Victor.

“What the hell?” She flipped the picture over. She recognized Sherlock’s handwriting. It always reminded her of her grandmother’s beautiful old-fashioned cursive. He had written “SH & VT, Prague, 2000.”

_Mycroft hates Victor, why would he keep a picture of him…?_

“Oh,” Violet squeezed her eyes shut and tapped the photograph to her head, lightly hitting herself for her stupidity. She thought, _Because Mycroft didn’t hide these pictures and documents. Sherlock did. He must have somehow gotten them away from Mycroft and hid them in plain sight. Why would Mycroft search the library anyway? And technically, it isn’t Mycroft’s estate. It still belongs to his father. He wouldn’t care if his father had a locked desk drawer because he doesn’t think his father has anything interesting enough to investigate._

Maybe sentiment didn’t get Mycroft, but arrogance sure as hell had.

“And you,” she asked the twenty-seven year old Victor Trevor in the photograph. “Where do you fit in all of this?”

She leaned back in Sherlock’s chair as Gladstone sat next to her feet. She smiled at her dog and stroked his soft, warm fur.

But her smile soon dissolved into a frown.

_How did Victor get onto Mycroft’s shit list exactly?_ She wondered. 

**

23 September 2000  
Prague, Czech Republic  
Old Town   
Saturday afternoon  
3:33 PM

With trembling hands, Victor put the receiver of the telephone down.

Never had he felt the desire to use more than he did right now. What he wouldn’t give to feel the brief pain of the needle pricking his arm, and then the sweet rush of oblivion.

But he couldn’t use if Sherlock couldn’t. Moderation was not in Sherlock’s vocabulary. He didn’t see warning signals or stop signs. He didn’t comprehend the word “No.”

Sometimes, Victor worried that his partner really did have a death wish.

Since he couldn’t use, he made do with going to the refrigerator in their petite but comfortable flat and getting himself a beer. He stared questioningly at the refrigerator baggies sitting next to the beer which contained  reddish-brown lumps that looked suspiciously like _kidneys_ marinating in something. . _Please let that just be sweetbreads from the butcher’s and Sherlock’s making a foray into gourmet cookery. Please let him not start up his damn morbid experiments_ again, he prayed as he quickly grabbed a beer and slammed the fridge door shut. 

_And thank God_ _the Czechs do make a damn good beer_ , he reflected as he found an opener and popped the cap off.

He had polished off that beer and was going for a second when Sherlock burst into their studio flat, bright-eyed and energized. “Hi!” he beamed at Victor, kicking the door shut behind him as he juggled his violin case and an armful of books he had just checked out of the [_Klementinum_](http://prague-stay.com/lifestyle/review/706-klementinum) _._

_And they are probably all in Czech too,_ Victor thought warmly as Sherlock managed to put his violin case and books down on the coffee-table. Sherlock, of course, decided it was only logical to learn the language of their new home. After seven months, Victor knew enough to ask where the loo was. Sherlock, naturally, was nearly fluent. If he couldn’t remember a word, he’d switch to either Russian or German and generally managed to get the point across.

Affectionately, Victor watched Sherlock toe off his trainers, divest himself of his leather jacket and red scarf. Half-listening to Sherlock natter on about some great discovery he had made today, Victor reflected how good Prague had been for him. Rehab had been ghastly, or at least that was what Sherlock had told Victor once they reunited after he had completed his treatment. But it was either rehab or prison. Mycroft had been less than amused when he had to bail his little brother out of gaol for possession charges… again.

“I can’t stay in London,” Sherlock had said desperately to Victor after he had slipped Mycroft’s leash one snowy night. “Too many triggers and I may murder Mycroft yet.” 

A month later, Victor found himself in Prague with Sherlock, who looked like he had just received a reprieve from a life sentence.

_Which_ _it probably was_ , Victor realized as he watched Sherlock curl up on the sofa with one of his new books. Victor noticed there was a hole in Sherlock’s left sock. Noticed how the autumn sunlight hit his ebony curls and made his skin shine with a milky iridescence. Noticed the faded jeans, the well-worn blue-and-black checked flannel shirt and the grey t-shirt. Noticed how he just got lost during his pursuit of new knowledge, his insatiable curiosity, his need to know, to understand, to pick things apart and then put them together again.

_He really is oblivious… he really has no idea just how_ beautiful _he is_ …

Victor put coffee on to perk and then reached for his pack of cigarettes. They had both become heavy smokers after giving up hard drugs. He smoked and drank his second beer, watching Sherlock read as the coffee dripped from the machine to the carafe.

“Instead of staring, speak your mind,” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving the page.

Victor turned his back to Sherlock and reached into the cupboard for a mug and the bottle of chocolate liqueur. He poured a healthy shot of alcohol into the mug before adding coffee. Finally, he said “My dad called,” in a dead voice as he walked toward Sherlock.

He brought the spiked coffee to Sherlock, who put the book on the coffee table and tucked his feet up so Victor could sit down. “Oh,” was all Sherlock said when Victor handed him the mug. He sipped and pulled a face when he tasted the familiar tang of spirits.

Sherlock really didn’t like the taste of alcohol. And he was a bit of a nightmare to deal with after a bender. His hangovers turned him into a complete and utterly whiny brat. But he would indulge in an adult beverage from time to time if it was sweet. Miraculously, Sherlock never got hooked on the feeling of being drunk, not like how he got hooked on being high.

Guilt ate Victor alive but he just couldn’t deal with Sherlock sober right now. He needed Sherlock to turn his massive brain off, just for a bit. Or at least slow it down a little, enough for Victor to make his case without Sherlock poking holes in his defense.  

But before Victor could even say anything, Sherlock demanded, “Why I am the one getting drunk if you’re the one having issues with his father?”

“I need you to catch up to me. I’ve had two beers, contemplating a third.”

Normal people would have asked “Why?” Sherlock merely studied him over the rim of the coffee mug. Normal people also wouldn’t stare at their significant others unblinkingly. Victor learned not to feel self-conscious when Sherlock stared at him and looked him over from head to toe.

Except today, Victor felt his intestines turning into squiggling, writhing snakes.

What was it that arsehole Seb Wilkes had said once? _It was like he was reading your mind…_

 “He told you your mother is ailing, possibly dying,” Sherlock finally proclaimed, looking bored. He took another sip at his coffee then reached for his book. “While your mother’s illness is probably real, probably even serious, he is just trying to make you feel bad so you return to London.”

Victor puffed out a breath. “He said Mummy has melanoma. Skin can-”

“I am aware of what melanoma is, Victor.”

“Yeah, well, sorry. I know. I’m just a bit shaken. Dad said it was Stage Two.”

“Exactly as I deduced,” Sherlock shrugged, radiating boredom now. “Serious, but usually not fatal, as long as it was caught in time, which obviously it was. Go to London for her surgery, stay a fortnight afterwards then come back home. Make sure you call her more often than you have been. She’ll be feeling quite needy for some time. After a while, she will become quite tedious with her stories about her brush with mortal peril. An avoidable peril if she had only used sunscreen and purchased a hat.”  

“Sherlock,” Victor measured his words carefully. “Can you not sound like an arrogant dick when you’re talking about my mum?”

“But we’re not talking about your mum,” Sherlock resumed reading. “We’re talking about your father. He wants you to move back to London.” He took another swallow of coffee. “And he’s using your mother’s illness to make you feel guilty. So who is the arrogant dick now?”

Victor stalled, watching Sherlock take tiny sips of the coffee. He wanted to rush over and pour the contents down his throat. He _needed_ Sherlock to get drunk. Desperately. He just wasn’t _pliable_ when he was sober.  “My sisters live too far away to help Mummy out.”

“Your sisters moved away and got lives of their own, the same as you,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Well, I’m not married and I don’t have kids. That’s why Dad wants me to come back. He thinks it’d be easier for me to come home since I don’t have a spouse and kiddies to contend with.”

“Justine isn’t married but has been living with her boyfriend for two years now. She’s also childless. Why hasn’t Father Dearest asked her to come home?”

“Justine hates Dad.”

“You hate him as well,” Sherlock reminded them. Then he jerked his head up from his book. “Victor. Does your father know you and I are still together?”

Victor didn’t answer.

“Victor,” there was an icy note of warning in Sherlock’s voice now. “Did you ever tell your fath-”

“No,” Victor sawed him off angrily. He snatched up Sherlock’s (finally) empty mug.

“So your father thinks you’re in Prague alone?” Sherlock sneered as Victor got himself another beer and mixed Sherlock another spiked coffee, “Or with a girl?”

“He thinks I’m living alone,” Victor said stiffly as he walked back to the sofa. “Sherlock, I don’t want to get into a fight.”

“Is that why you’re trying to get me intoxicated?”

“No. I’m trying to get you drunk so I can take advantage of you later.”

“Levity has no place in this conversation. It’s the same old argument. You’re ashamed that you’re gay and you’re ashamed of _me_.”

“That’s not true.” 

“Let me rephrase,” Sherlock said tartly, ignoring the proffered coffee mug. “Your father makes you feel shame for being gay and I embarrass you because I won’t bow to social norms plus you’re always worrying when my next giant relapse will occur.”

Sherlock then acted like he was reading his book again, but Victor knew him better than that. Sherlock would either pretend to read or pretend to examine something underneath his microscope. It was his way of sticking his fingers in his ears and ignoring everything Victor was saying if they were fighting. Once Sherlock had been so irate with Victor, he had forgotten to put a slide in his microscope, so in reality he had been looking at nothing.

“I am not embarrassed by you,” Victor’s voice trembled with suppressed rage. “But yes, I do worry. I have every right to worry. I’m the one who found you, remember? When your little experiment went tits up? You nearly _died_ the last time!”

“Melodrama is so unattractive, Victor,” Sherlock sighed. “I have my own family drama to sort out, Victor. I have no desire to get ensnarled into yours because you chose to be dishonest. You choose to let your father continue manipulating you.” He licked his finger and dramatically turned the page. “You’re not going to be able to keep me a secret forever.”

“You’re not a secret, it’s just that…” Victor set the mug down on the coffee table. “It’s complicated. There’s more. Could you… could you put that rutting book down and look at me when I’m trying to talk to you? This is serious.”

Sherlock lowered the book and fixed his piercing eyes on Victor’s face. He lifted his black brows up high and gave Victor That Look.

Victor’s hand itched to slap That Look straight off Sherlock’s face.

Whenever he got like this, he reminded Victor too much of Mycroft.

“Dad’s cutting me off. Financially,” Victor blurted out.

Sherlock’s face softened. Relief lit up his eyes. He looked human again. “Oh, is that all?” he shook his head and chuckled. “Victor, that’s no great obstacle. We can get by. We’ll have to get a smaller flat, obviously. Maybe even get a flat-mate or two. Cut out a few unnecessary luxuries, more public transport, fewer cabs, stay home more instead of going out all nights of the week. I haven’t touched my savings. But I could find a job at a hospital or a laboratory, even if it’s something boring like washing test tubes. Or I could play my violin on the street corner if we need quick cash. But we’ll manage until January. Then I turn twenty-five and I’ll come into my trust fund.” Sherlock beamed at Victor, quite pleased at himself for solving the problem. He reached for the mug now and took a long drink. “Don’t let your father blackmail you into moving back to England. Go visit tomorrow and tell your father you live here now and that’s that.” He took another drink, set the mug back on the coffee table then picked his book up again. “I’ll get the paper tomorrow and start looking for less expensive flats. Or I’ll find one of those Internet cafés and see if I can find something online.”

“Your savings are supposed to go towards a computer,” Victor reminded him. “And university. You’re supposed to start classes this January. You’re supposed to finish your degree. Finally.”

“Which I can pay for when I start receiving payments from my trust fund,” there was more than a bit of impatience in Sherlock’s voice now. Victor could tell he had clearly lost interest in the discussion. “I assure you, what I will be receiving will more than make up for a few months of deprivation. Do stop fussing, Victor. Truly, I don’t mind. You’d do the same for me if the shoe was on the other foot.”

Guilt continued to twist Victor’s insides.

_No. I wouldn’t_ he shamefully admitted to himself. He turned on the television set, seeing that Sherlock wasn’t pretending to read but was truly lost in the pages of his book again.

Victor reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He flipped the channels until he found some ridiculous game show, but it was in English so he left it there. The telly did not deter his guilty thoughts however: _I know Sherlock means well, but I just can’t live in squalor, not even for a few months. I shouldn’t have been such an idiot. I never thought to set anything aside. I thought what Dad was giving me was my due, my inheritance._

_After all, the old bastard did break my arm when he caught me and Sherlock together. Nearly took Sherlock’s head off with the poker. That’s when the drugs really sunk their hooks into Sherlock. After that Easter, it wasn’t about taking the edge off of a bad day or cutting loose at a party. It stopped being recreational for him, which Mycroft blamed me for, of course…_

_Really, Father Dearest_ owes _me that money. The shit I put up from him and what he’s done to Sherlock, the old bastard should double my allowance._

_This time, I’ll be smarter. This time, I’ll set some money aside, a nest-egg, I really will this time. Then, once January 6 th comes and goes, Sherlock and I will come straight back here. We’ll be back just in time for his first classes at Charles University. He can finally become a proper scientist and I’ll find some sort of interesting job to keep me busy until Dad finally turns up on his toes and I’m rid of him and receive what’s rightfully mine._

_I just have to convince Sherlock to come back with me to London. It’s just for a few months. Just long enough to make sure Mum’s OK and to get back into Dad’s good graces._

_It’s only for three months._

_I can’t leave him here alone for three months. He could relapse…_

_He could meet someone else._

Victor’s mouth went completely dry.

The idea of _his_ Sherlock, his strange, ethereal, maddening, irascible partner, with someone else… talking to someone else, explaining his experiments and deductions to someone else, playing violin for someone else, lavishing all his parents’ money on someone else, sharing his bed with someone else, made Victor’s blood bubble and boil with hot jealousy.

_He’s mine_ , he thought savagely. His sudden possessiveness frightened him a bit, but the idea of Sherlock sharing his life with someone that was not him frightened him even more.

He turned his head when he heard the soft clink of the ceramic mug being set on the glass coffee table. Sherlock was still reading, but his eyes had gone a bit glassy like they tended to do when he had been drinking. His pale cheeks had pinked up a bit as well.

_Perfect_ Victor thought, hitting the mute button on the remote control. Just drunk enough that his ridiculous ironclad control would melt away but not so intoxicated he would be unreasonable.

He took one last drag of his cigarette then ground the butt out. He reached over and plucked the book out of Sherlock’s hands. Cat-like, Victor leaned over and crawled on top of Sherlock, even as he whined “Victor, I was reading that!”

Victor dropped the book to the floor. It landed with a satisfying thud. Victor stretched his body flush over Sherlock’s, adjusting his hips until they aligned with Sherlock’s in that utterly perfect way that made Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as his head lolled back against the sofa’s armrest. Victor dragged his tongue over the exposed tendons of Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock wrapped his lanky arms around him and hooked a long leg over Victor’s thigh, holding him close. Victor gently rocked his hips against Sherlock’s as he kissed him on his Cupid’s bow lips, softly first, then fully, wetly, deeply.

And he hated himself for every second of it, especially when Sherlock started reciprocating.  

He didn’t know the details of what happened to Sherlock when he was a little boy. But he knew enough to utterly despise The Honorable Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, the shithead son of the Earl of Winchester. He knew enough to completely lose respect for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. He knew enough to completely loathe Mycroft Holmes.

And he knew enough that sex would never come easily to Sherlock.

But he didn’t mind that. Not really.

Or so he told himself when Sherlock acted like a cold fish.

But he had been oddly touched and fiercely protective when Sherlock decided he, Victor, would be his “first.” And he had been patient, so so very patient. It had taken two years after their first kiss before they made love properly, penetration and all. And that particular act had only taken place after a quite raucous party that involved a lot of alcohol and a little bit of marijuana and a hit of Ecstasy. Victor was convinced Sherlock would still be a virgin to this very day if he hadn’t been tripping out of his goddamn mind that night.

But he would never forget the following morning, after all the guests had finally left  Victor’s flat and the two of them prepared to battle the oncoming epic hangover together. Bleary-eyed, Sherlock had made tea and toast while Victor had fetched the duvet and extra blankets from his bedroom. Together they had drawn the curtains and set up camp on Victor’s sofa, determined not to move all day unless it was absolutely necessary. Victor had popped a DVD in his new player and stumbled back to the sofa, sitting next to Sherlock, who had wrapped himself up like a cocoon in a soft, fleecy blanket.

Victor had worried he had gone too far the previous night. But as the film started playing, Sherlock curled up next to Victor, rested his head on Victor’s shoulder and whispered “I never knew it didn’t have to hurt,” before dozing off.

Victor would never be able to properly explain how that softly spoken sentence moved him and hurt him all at once. He had kissed Sherlock on the temple and gathered him into his arms, murmuring endearments and promises as the raven-haired young man drifted off into to sleep. Promised him it would always be like this, promised that he wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt him again, that sex would never ever hurt him again, be used as a weapon against him again…

Now every kiss Victor placed on Sherlock’s lips, cheekbones and throat felt like a jagged broken piece of that promise, as if that vow had been made out of nothing stronger than glass.

“Love, I know you’re homesick,” he breathed between kisses. Shame continued to spiral in his gut as he felt Sherlock writhing below him, felt Sherlock’s hands skimming down his back and slipping into his trousers and underneath his cotton pants. Victor shuddered at his touch. Because he was Sherlock, once he caught on to the concept of sex, he, of course, became quite proficient. The real challenge was always convincing him to engage in sex.

Hence the alcohol, since drugs were no longer an option.

Before lust caused him to lose focus, Victor threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, those wonderful glossy raven-black curls and continued to croon: “You live and breathe London. We can always come back here, we _will_ come back here, but, don’t you want to go home, love? Just for a bit? For me? It’s only for three months.”

Sherlock stopped groping his arse. He pulled his hands out and gripped the tails of Victor’s shirt, his opalescent eyes wide and afraid.

Victor stroked his cheek. “I know, I know, you’re afraid you’ll fall off the wagon if we go back. I won’t let you. I promise, I won’t let you fall, I won’t ever let you fall.”

Victor hoped he could at least keep that promise.

The dreadful anxiety left Sherlock’s lovely eyes. He smiled openly and unquestioningly at Victor.  “I know,” he said simply. “I trust you.”

Those three words felt like a horse’s kick to his groin.

Victor rubbed his itchy nose then rose off the sofa. He pulled Sherlock to his feet and hustled him into the bedroom before his guilty conscience got the better of him.

**

11 November 2000  
Remembrance Day  
Piccadilly, London  
10:45 AM

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and flipped the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head, steadfastly ignoring all the sentimental fools selling poppies on street corners.

As if it even mattered. As if two minutes of silence and paper flowers would bring the dead back.

The only thing Sherlock cared about at the moment was finding a cab.

Normally he didn’t rise before ten o’clock if he could help it. But Victor’s birthday’s was coming up soon. Granted, he’d have to spend the actual day with his abysmal parents, per his ailing mother’s request. That also meant Victor would be in a strop the next time they saw each other. Sherlock wanted to get him something really special, something good. Not sentimental or useless, but _good_. Something practical that would also make him happy. 

Sherlock forced himself get up at a decent hour because he knew traffic would be shit as the fools would flock to churches, cemeteries and Whitehall to venerate the glorious dead.

As if the dead cared.

But as he manoeuvred  his way down the pavement, carefully and cautiously observing the world rushing past him, he felt London pulsing around him, his heart beating in perfect tandem with this gloriously imperfect, dirty, ancient, modern wonderful, infuriating and lovely lovely city.

He hated admitting Victor was right. He had been homesick. Prague was a wonderful challenge and a welcome distraction. But London was _home_.

Learning from past mistakes, he veered away from his old haunts and stayed clear of his old “friends”, the junkies he used to get high with and the dealers he used to score from.

As long as he called Mother once a week and endured Sunday dinner twice a month, his parents didn’t hover, fret or nag him.

He steadfastly refused to live with Mycroft but grudgingly let Mycroft pick out a flat, along with a flat-mate. But Mike Stamford turned out to be an OK bloke after all, once Sherlock determined that was not indeed a spy for Mycroft. Granted, Mike was dead boring for the most part. But he wasn’t a complete idiot. He had to have some brains as he was currently training at St. Bart’s as an anaesthetist. Sherlock discovered that as long as he confined their conversations strictly to the medical field, they could have decent chats from time to time.

Best of all, Mike managed to maintain an active social life along with his grueling studies. On top of that, he had just gotten a steady girlfriend whose flat was much nicer than theirs. That meant Sherlock had their flat to himself the grand majority of the time.

That also meant Victor used the flat quite often when he needed a break from his tiresome, homophobic family. Usually when Victor came over, he ended up staying over. These days, his handsome face looked strained and grey. His never-ending performance exhausted him. But still he continued to play the role of the good son. The perfect, golden son. The perfect, golden, _straight_ son.

Observing how Victor’s stress levels had reached an all time high, Sherlock had become deeply motivated to actually put some effort into finding a _good_ gift for Victor.

That was why he set his alarm at seven o’clock. He showered, dressed and was out the door no later than seven-thirty on a gloomy Saturday morning. He found a reasonably priced café in Piccadilly and indulged in a full English breakfast while he waited for one of his favorite book shops to open up. One thing he decidedly did not miss about Prague was the food. 

He dallied over a second, then third cup of tea as he read _The Guardian_ and _London News_ , his busy mind soaking in as much information as it could. At nine-thirty on the dot, he stood in front of Hatchards just as the doors were being unlocked. Stepping inside  the bookstore, he shrugged off the leather jacket he had put on over his sweatshirt as he inhaled that wonderful smell of leather book covers and crisp new paper.

He had the shop mostly to himself, which made him as gleeful as a small boy unattended in a sweets shop. He allowed himself the indulgence of wandering briefly in the sections that appealed to him, science, technology and the true crime section. Unsolved crimes always intrigued him, for some odd reason. It was becoming quite a fascinating hobby, really.

He selected some books he knew he would need for his classes at Charles University. He also selected a historical novel entitled _The Rose of Raby,_ which at first glance appeared to be a biography of Cicely Neville, the mother of the much-maligned King Richard III. However the book caught Sherlock’s interest because it supposedly debunked the popular theories about the infamous deaths of the Two Princes in the Tower during the War of the Roses. Sherlock was no history buff, but he did love a good mystery.

Stifling his selfish impulses to just stay in the sections that interested him, he made himself go to the architectural section of the shop. There he found exactly what he had been looking for, a glossy coffee table book of all the fascinating buildings in the world.

Victor would be the first to admit he didn’t have the wits to be an architect or  the patience to be an interior designer. So Sherlock had been subtly steering him towards real estate.  Victor had a flawless eye for buildings and décor plus he could charm the pants off of anyone… _literally_ , he added to himself, with a smug smirk.

He took his books to the cashier and told her to just put the lot in his rucksack. He paid and the cheery cashier told him to have a nice day. He ignored her as he put his jacket back on. He knotted his red scarf around his neck, hoisted the heavy rucksack onto his back and prepared to brave the elements and the London populace again. The grey skies grew hazy as drizzle began to coat the city.

Weighed down by books, Sherlock tried and tried again to hail a cab. As black cab after black cab whizzed past him, Sherlock, scowling and damp from the drizzle, decided the hell with it and just made his way towards the nearest Tube stop.

His hood had slipped down as he trudged towards the nearest Underground. As he stood on a busy corner, waiting for the red light to change, he heard someone calling his name…

“William?”

Sherlock’s heart froze.

He fixed his eyes straight ahead, fixing his face into a neutral mask while internally he battled blinding, paralyzing panic.

He _knew_ that voice. 

“I say, William Holmes, is that you?”

His stomach started to clench up, like it had when he was a little boy.

_I am not a child_ , he stoutly told himself now. _I have no reason to be afraid_.

So he turned to face his abuser.

“Hello Heathcliff,” he said neutrally as he stood to his full height.

He now towered over the Honourable Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, who now stood less than a foot away, dressed somberly in an expensive black suit with a heavy woolen overcoat and a forest green scarf. A poppy was in his buttonhole of his winter coat. He wore black leather gloves, which hid his deformed, scarred hands.

Nothing could cover up the scarring on his face. He truly looked like a comic book character. Half his face was regally beautiful, like a film star. The other half of his face was covered with ropy, wormy pink and white scars.

_Good_ Sherlock thought savagely. _Let who you really are show to the world for all to see_.

“Good lord, William, I almost didn’t recognize you,” Heathcliff said urbanely. A flash of malevolence flickered in his navy blue eyes. “The last time I saw you, you were _this_ high.” 

He held his hand right in front of his crotch.

Sherlock refused to look down. He stared Heathcliff right in the eye. “I’ve grown,” he said, adapting that lazy tone of voice he knew from time-tested experience infuriated _everyone_.

“Indeed,” Heathcliff sniffed as he eyed Sherlock up and down. Sherlock immediately deduced the monster was trying to find some trace of the little boy he had been.

Sherlock stood tall, shoulders squared. He was glad he hadn’t shaved today. The stubble served as additional proof he had left childhood eons ago.

He focused solely on keeping his face immobile as the predator continued to scan his body, looking for weaknesses. But the puppy fat was long gone, he had finally stopped growing at six-two and his shoulders had broadened. His voice had started losing its soprano lilt when he had turned twelve and it had resolved into its present-day resonant baritone at age fifteen.

He had even gotten a haircut recently, closely-cropped, just to stop his mother from whinging about how long it was. So even the shaggy ebony curls were gone.

And the innocence had left his eyes when he was seven years old.

Just then a preternatural silence descended over the city as church bells began to ring.

Heathcliff checked his watch. Sherlock knew it was eleven o’clock.

“Remembrance Day,” Heathcliff said.

“I remember everything,” Sherlock said dryly.

“So I’ve heard,” Heathcliff said, equally dry. Then a small, sadistic smile quirked his ruined lips up. “Where are you off to? We can share a cab.”

The idea of being trapped in a confined space with Heathcliff nauseated Sherlock immediately. Masterfully he hid his true feelings, “And where are you going?”

“I was supposed to go to the ceremonies, but I had a breakfast meeting and it ran late.”

“On a Saturday? How inconvenient and how odd. Having a business meeting on a Saturday and on a national day of mourning.”

A flare of anger sparked in Heathcliff’s eyes now. “Still nosy, just as you were as a little boy.”

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug, “Just making conversation but I must be off. My Tube stop is actually right across the street and I don’t want to miss my connection.”

“Of course,” Heathcliff started pulling off his glove. He held his ruined hand out. “So nice seeing you again… Sherlock.”

Sherlock could feel the blood draining from his face. Heathcliff had found a chink in his armor.

Sherlock wasn’t wearing gloves.

If he walked away, Heathcliff would know he could still _get_ to him.

So he held onto his detached façade for dear life as he reached out to shake Heathcliff’s hand. “Likewise,” he said calmly. “Give your father my regards. Heard he was ill. Shame.”   

A thousand horrific memories flash-flooded his brain the minute Heathcliff’s skin touched Sherlock’s. It took every ounce of willpower and self-control he possessed to endure the handshake until it was socially acceptable to no longer do so.

But of course, Heathcliff wouldn’t let go, would never let go. He ran his thumb in circles over Sherlock’s hand. “That’s very kind of you, thank you. He’s not just ill. He’s dying. I’m the Earl of Winchester now all but in name.”

Sherlock didn’t give a damn about social niceties anymore. He jerked his hand out of Heathcliff’s. He could feel his breakfast crawling its way out his stomach back up his throat.

As Sherlock darted across the busy street, Heathcliff cheerily called out “Say hello to Mickey for me,” as a parting shot.

Sherlock suffered through the Tube ride, battling the nausea and the chattering of all the useless, insipid people around him. All wearing poppies to memorialize a war hardly anyone remembered why it was fought in the first place.

Meanwhile, the war raging inside Sherlock would never die.

He made it back to the flat without being sick. Once inside however, he let his rucksack fall to the floor, not caring about the people who lived below him. He barely made it to the loo before the tea, the tomatoes, the beans-on-toast, the boiled egg, everything he had eaten came straight back up.

He wasn’t sure if his shaking legs would support him, so he weakly shut the door and curled up next to the toilet, willing his stomach to settle down. But it was only a matter of minutes before he was on his knees in front of the toilet again, retching, bringing up bile this time.

He closed his eyes and fought to push the memories down, down, down. Down back into the cellars of the extensive mind palace he had created to sort out all the information he absorbed on a daily basis.

His eyes popped open when he heard a gentle rapping on the door. “Hey mate? You OK?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock lied. He had lost all track of time.  “Have a touch of the flu.”

“Oh,” Mike said sympathetically. “That’s dreadful. Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“Right,” Mike sounded dubious. “OK, well I’m off then. I’m heading to Adelaide’s anyway. I’ll just use her shower, she won’t mind. Feel better. I’ll leave Ade’s number in case you need something. We’re just staying in and watching DVDs.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock said, desperate for him to leave.

After Mike finally departed, Sherlock made himself get off the bathroom floor. Tears of humiliation stung his eyes but he refused to weep. He longed to call Victor, but that just wasn’t possible. He had a family engagement tonight, an early birthday party actually. A party Sherlock would not be welcomed at, which was just as well. Victor’s house would be swarming with his hateful bigoted relatives. The call would have to wait until tomorrow, maybe even Monday.

So instead, he took a scalding hot shower. He pulled on a t-shirt, a pair of warm, fleece pyjama bottoms and a thick woolly dressing robe. He made a pot of peppermint tea to calm his stomach and fixed himself a sparse, bland supper of dry toast, chicken broth and an apple, just to get some nutrients into his system.

He brought his meal and tea into the lounge and clicked on the overhead light. He set his food and drink on the coffee table and went to retrieve his rucksack. He brought to the sofa but instead of lying down, he went to Mike Stamford’s impressive stereo system instead. He inserted a CD compilation of classical music. Soon the sounds of Mozart filled the flat.

Finally Sherlock settled down on the sofa, as if he really did have a bad flu. He drank his tea, ate his soup and toast, but decided against the apple. Its acidity might set off his stomach again. He reached into his rucksack and pulled out _The Rose of Raby_.

He pulled Mike’s old patchwork quilt over his legs and started reading.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the loo, vomiting up his meagre supper.

**

30 November 2000  
Mike Stamford and Sherlock Holmes’ flat  
Thursday night  
10:45 PM

“Stop it,” Sherlock pushed Victor off of him a little more forcefully than he intended.

Scowling, Victor flopped back onto the sofa, glaring at Sherlock. Running his hand through his golden hair, he finally snapped. “What’s with you lately?”

They hadn’t had sex in nearly three weeks. They had barely even kissed.

“Nothing,” Sherlock scowled, curling his knees up to his chest. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he fixed his eyes onto Mike’s television. “You kept going on and on about how fantastic this film is because of its big twist so I want to watch it.”

“You hate movies. And you always guess how a film is going to end anyway.”

“Deduce,” Sherlock sourly corrected him. “I deduce how a film is going to end.”

“Sherlock,” Victor’s voice sounded tight and angry. “I had to move heaven and hell to come here tonight. My father’s getting suspicious. He thinks I’m in a relationship.”

“You _are_ in a relationship.”

 Victor shot him filthy look. “You know what I mean.”   
  
“Then pay some lipstick lesbian to be your beard. You’ve done it before.”

“I don’t want to do _that_ , I want to do _you_.”

“I’m not in the mood for your dirty talk.”

“You’re _never_ in the mood for _anything_. What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“ _Nothing_.”

Victor studied Sherlock intently. Sherlock’s face closed up immediately as he unseeingly watched the DVD they had rented.

He had changed his mind about confiding in Victor.

He didn’t know if he could. Every time he had tried to bring it up, his throat closed up and his stomach would start churning.

So he stayed silent. And cold. And untouchable.

His partner, naturally, started leaping to conclusions.

“Are you using?” Victor quietly and angrily demanded.

Sherlock’s head whipped around. “No!”

“You’ve dropped at least a stone, maybe more.”

“I’m not using,” Sherlock snarled.

“Prove it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed to mean little slits. “Fuck you.”

Sherlock hardly ever cursed. The vulgarity hit Victor like a sucker punch. “I’m leaving,” he snapped. “When you feel like being honest with me, give me a call.”

“I left Prague for you, you know,” Sherlock nastily reminded Victor.

“Maybe I should have left you in Prague,” Victor spat back as he jerked his coat on. “Oh, and Bruce Willis is one of the dead people the kid sees.”

He stormed out of the flat, slamming the door so hard the pictures rattled in their frames.

“Obviously,” Sherlock droned. He had deduced that in the first ten minutes.

But his hand shook as he reached for the remote to turn the insipid film off. His elbows itched, craving the needle he had most definitely _not_ been using.

His eyes burned again with tears.

He still refused to weep.

**

9 December 2000  
Mike Stamford and Sherlock Holmes’ flat  
Saturday night  
5:45 PM

“You sure you’re alright?” Mike Stamford eyed his flat mate suspiciously.

Sherlock had dropped at least two stones in the past few weeks. His cheekbones jutted out dangerously. His temper also flared at unexpected moments.

But most of the time, he just stayed silent. Reading. Or lying on the sofa like a damned corpse, fingers tented, eyes shut.

On the rare occasion Mike actually slept at the flat however, he had distinctly heard vomiting in the middle of the night. When he didn’t hear the retching and the foul splash of sick hitting toilet water, he would hear soft sounds from Sherlock’s room. But he couldn’t tell if they were cries or moans. But Sherlock’s temper was so short and venomous, Mike hardly dared approach him.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock sat crossed legged on the sofa, nose in a thick chemistry book. “Just have loads of work to do before I head back to Prague for university.”

“I see that,” Mike eyed the wall behind the sofa, where Sherlock had taped up several papers, all covered with complicated scientific squiggles. Then he gave Sherlock a jovial, friendly smile. “Ah, come on. I’ve got a night to myself for a change. Ade’s out of town and I don’t have to work or study for once. We’re going to the pub for a pint and to play darts. Join us. Take a break.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Sherlock never looked up from his textbook, but he reached for the notebook and pen on the coffee table.”

“Just the lads from Barts. Rochet, Darby, Potter, oh! And my friend Watson’s in town. He’s the one who’s in the milita-”

“Boring,” Sherlock snapped, writing notes in his beautiful copperplate handwriting.

“Right,” Mike shook his head. “OK, I’m off. Oh, hey, it’s your turn to do the shopping tomorrow. We’re out of milk.”

“Hmmph,” Sherlock inhaled irritably through his nose. Mike sighed and left.

Sherlock chewed on the pen, annoyed. He thought it was highly unfair he still had to chip in for food when most of whatever he ate just came straight back up anyway. What he could manage to eat tasted like sawdust.

He also could not fathom why Mike thought he would ever want to meet any of his friends.

Especially someone in the _military_ , for God’s sake.

Sherlock promptly deleted the names Rochet, Darby, Potter and Watson from his memory palace. He had no room for useless information.

He dove into the comforting, complicated and yet somehow still logical world of organic chemistry. Science and logic cooled Sherlock, calmed him.

Helped him not dwell on how Victor hadn’t called since he stormed out well over a week ago.

The words on the page blurred. Sherlock shook his head, told himself to stop being so stupid.

He resumed drawing the structural formula for acetic acid.

**

24 December 2000  
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ residence  
Sunday night  
7:25 PM

“I’m _not_ using.”

Tears stood in his mother’s bright blue eyes. “We love you, poppet.”

“Oh Christ,” Sherlock and Mycroft said at the exact same time.

If circumstances had been different, it would have been funny.

Undeterred, Mrs. Holmes ploughed on. “If we didn’t love you, we wouldn’t ask.”

Through his teeth, Sherlock hissed again “I am _not_ using.”

“Prove it,” Mycroft oily demanded. “You know the drill brother mine. Roll the shirt sleeves up.” 

“If you would observe instead of assume, you would clearly see my pupils are normal dilation for this level of light. I am speaking in coherent sentences. I am mindful of my personal hygiene. You don’t need to check my arms for track marks.”

“You’re right,” Mycroft purred, reaching for a gingersnap. “You’re cleverer than that. You’d shoot up in your inner thighs or under your nails so we wouldn’t see.”

“You’ve just gotten so skinny, sweetheart.” His mother fiddled with the napkin holder in front of her. “You didn’t touch your dinner.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re a terrible cook.”

“Don’t speak to your mother that way,” his father rumbled at him.

Sherlock stood up from the kitchen table. “I’m _finished_ being interrogated,” he shouted at his family. “I’ve been working my arse off to stay clean. This is how I get treated. _So glad_ I came home for Christmas. Although I do thank you for ceasing and desisting with the senseless tradition of going back to that awful old mausoleum in the country.”

With that final jibe, Sherlock stormed out of the house into the back garden. Shivering in his thin t-shirt and flannel shirt, he fished around in his jeans pocket for his cigarettes and matches.

As he proceeded to chain-smoke, he cursed himself for allowing emotion override his good sense. If he hadn’t flounced out of the house like a prat, he could have called a cab and gone back to the flat he shared with Mike Stamford.

But along with his jacket, his wallet and keys were also in the house.

He heard the door open and footsteps crunching on what little snow they had received this year.

“Not now, Mycroft,” he said wearily. He just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred thousand years.

Too late, the scent of aftershave and scotch told him it wasn’t Mycroft behind him.

But his father had already draped a warm, heavy coat over his shoulders. Sherlock looked down at it. It was a beautiful coat, thick and warm as anything. It was a long coat too, but not so long it would drag on the ground. He ran his hand over the scratchy, heavy material and deduced the wool used was of the highest quality and was purchased at the greatest expense.

“Belstaff,” his father explained, keeping his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Was supposed to be a surprise, for Christmas morning, but well, you’ve had that old leather jacket since you were a teenager and you’ve nearly worn that to bits. A good coat will last forever.” There was an awkward silence then Mr. Holmes added, “Every man needs a good coat.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock muttered, dropping the cigarette to the pavement and grinding it out with the heel of his Converse trainer. Maybe it was time to start purchasing more adult clothes and shoes. He was twenty-four years old, after all.

He wanted his father to take his hands off his shoulders though. He could barely stand having anyone touch him these days.

“Son,” Mr. Holmes started, faltered then tried again. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Or your love. I can’t fix what’s all going wrong for you, but please let me try. Please let me in.”

Sherlock became undone.

He could disregard his mother’s flightiness, he could ignore Mycroft’s coldness, but he never could completely disengage from his father. His touch no longer repelled Sherlock. Now he needed his father’s embrace, needed irrefutable evidence that unconditional love still existed.

He turned and rested his head against his father’s shoulder. He started to sob silently. He hadn’t wept this way since he was a little boy. As his father’s arms wrapped around his too-thin frame, Sherlock managed to choke out: “ _I saw him_.”

Mr. Holmes’ face hardened. He knew exactly who “him” was and why his son had started starving himself… again.

He guided his youngest son into the house, gave quiet instructions to his wife after he led Sherlock to his old bedroom. He let his wife fuss over Sherlock as she tried to get some fluids into him at least. Sugary tea and beef broth. Tomorrow, a simple porridge for breakfast, soup for lunch, supper, some sort of custard. Soft foods, high caloric foods.

They knew the drill. They’d been through this before when he had stopped eating as a child.

Later that night, after Sherlock finally fell asleep and Mrs. Holmes went to have a whisky and a good cry in the master bedroom, Mr. Holmes went to his office. He dialed a number he thought he would never call again.

“Hello?” the voice was reedy, weak but familiar.

“Alastair, it’s me.”

“Ah,” the Earl of Winchester breathed in recognition, “Never thought I’d hear your voice again.”

Mr. Holmes cut to the chase. “I thought we had an understanding that we wouldn’t prosecute if you agreed not to come after us for the fire and that your rapist son would leave my boy alone,” an unfamiliar hardness crept into his voice.

“Oh yes, Heathcliff told me about his run-in with William. He assured me nothing happened. They made small talk on a busy London street.”

 “Forgive me if I don’t quite believe you.”

“Forgive me, but my son is not the one who’s a pyromaniac.”

“Better a pyromaniac than a child molester.” Mr. Holmes said coolly. “A little bird tells me that Heathcliff has political ambitions. Would be a shame if his predilections came to light.”

The dying Earl sucked in an angry breath. “I’ll talk to him,” he finally said. “But you should know, in case your little bird forgot to mention this. I’ve got cancer, pancreatic. There will be a time when I can no longer control Heathcliff.”

“Then you best make a lasting impression,” Mr. Holmes said. “My little bird told me something else. Something interesting.”

“What?”

His voice black as night now, Mr. Holmes said “I know you killed my brother,” and he hung up the telephone.

He looked up at his eldest son. “Are you very sure about that?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Mycroft nodded. “It’s considered classified information so I can’t officially say, but… yes. It was confirmed. Finally.”

“By whom?”

Mycroft suddenly looked very weary. Despite being only thirty-one, Mycroft looked like a tired old man. The beginnings of a receding hairline and the barest beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes didn’t help much either.

“By Ford,” he said quietly. “You know Ford would not tell me something like that without being absolutely certain. Alastair had Uncle Rudy and Aunt Beardy murdered because he planned on adopting Ford. Then stealing his inheritance.” When Mr. Holmes leaned back in his chair, the leather seat creaking, Mycroft added, “There’s more. The Old Earl’s done. He’s a walking corpse at this point. I’m surprised he answered his own phone honestly. He can’t control Heathcliff any longer. And Heathcliff has gotten into bed with a very dangerous terrorist group. I can’t tell you much more, Daddy, it’s classified. But Sherlock can’t go back to Prague. Not now.”

“What?” Disconcerted by the left turn in the conservation, Mr. Holmes demanded “Why not? He’s enrolled in university. We can help him with the eating thing. We’ve done it befo-”

“He’s not safe,” Mycroft interrupted quietly. “Sherlock. He’s not safe.”

“Why not?” Mr. Holmes asked sharply.

“Because he’s brilliant and unstable,” Mycroft said bluntly. “This particular terrorist group, they’ll want to recruit him. And Heathcliff would sell him out to them. In a heartbeat.”

Mr. Holmes ran his hands over his face. “I need a drink. Do you need a drink, Myc?”

“Yes, but I’ll get it. You need to stay seated for this next bit of news I have to tell you,” Mycroft got up and fixed himself and his father two stout glasses of scotch.

Taking the tumbler from Mycroft, Mr. Holmes asked “What is it, son?”

Mycroft took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have to tell you something about Ford.”

**

3 January 2001  
Somewhere in London    
Wednesday night  
11:47 PM

Sweat beaded all over Victor’s body. He felt the warm, muscled flanks of his partner slapping repeatedly against his own hips and it felt so good. So filthy and hot and good good _good_.

He hadn’t had a shag like this in ages and ages. Hadn’t fucked someone and been fucked this hard and this hot and this dirty in so long. What a blasted relief it was not to worry if he being too rough or coarse. Not having to worry about triggering a panic attack or night terrors.

How good it felt to have someone who didn’t have a phobia about kneeling to suck him off.

He was so close to coming, he could feel desire and lust pooling in his groin, heavy and about to explode. He buried himself deeper, thrusting harder and faster…

… and felt that eerie, creepy sensation of _being watched._

Victor looked up, at the ugly picture hanging over the hotel bed. Saw a reflection of a man in the picture frame glass… a man who was unmistakably and undeniably Mycroft Holmes.

Victor abruptly pulled out, whirled around, desperate to cover himself. “ _What the fuck?_ ” he howled as he grabbed a t-shirt and used it to cover his still erect penis.

His partner, an exquisitely fine-boned, well-muscled dark-skinned man rolled over onto his backside. His eyes widened as he saw Mycroft standing there in a three-piece suit, an umbrella hooked over his left arm. He grabbed a pillow to cover himself as well.

“Hey guv’,” he croaked, his voice surprisingly deep. “I don’t do threesomes.”

Mycroft’s lips crooked up into a tight, tiny smile. “Leave.”

“Yeah. Right,” the man slid off the bed and started retrieving his scattered clothes.

“Now,” Mycroft said quietly.

It never failed to simultaneously impress and petrify Victor whenever he witnessed Mycroft terrorizing someone without ever raising his voice. He felt his erection shriveling as he watched the lovely man he had picked up at the bar grab his trousers and shoes then scarper.

Mycroft turned his soulless black eyes onto Victor. “So this is how you repay my brother’s _love_ ,” Mycroft still had that tiny, cold smile on his lips. “Get dressed. We need to talk.”

Victor waited for Mycroft to leave the room. When he realized Mycroft wasn’t moving, he grabbed his boxers and pulled them up. He tugged his t-shirt over his head and hiked his jeans up over his slim hips. As he pulled his expensive jumper over his blonde head, Victor asked, “Let me guess. Sherlock relapsed and it’s all my fault.”

“You are such a child,” the smile left Mycroft’s face now. “Selfish and spoilt. Sherlock is in hospital but not for rehabilitation. He collapsed this morning from dehydration and malnutrition.”

“What?” Victor sank down onto the rumpled bed. “What happened? Is he going to be OK?”

“In a manner of speaking. He’s at Bart’s for now, receiving intravenous fluids. Once he stabilizes, he’s going to a clinic to treat his anorexia nervosa.”

“His… what?”

“Don’t play the fool, Victor, my patience is spent. I know Sherlock confided in you regarding his difficult childhood,” Mycroft sneered. “While you’ve been sulking because you are your daddy’s whipping boy once again, my brother ran into an _old family friend_.”

“Oh God,” Victor said hoarsely, finally putting the puzzle pieces together. He buried his face in his hands, “Oh God.”

“If you’re quite finished with your performance,” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Victor raised his head and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, Sherlock did tell me about that toffee-nosed kiddie fucker. He also told me how you all stood by and let it happen.”

The chilling smile was back on Mycroft’s lips. “Oh Victor, what you know about that dark period in our family history would fit on the head of a pin. I was given a choice, you see. Watch him be tortured or watch him die. I think I chose the lesser of the two evils. I was a child myself. I was manipulated just as much as Sherlock was. By the time I had come up with a plan to rid us of that “toffee-nosed kiddie fucker” as you so quaintly and picturesquely put it, Sherlock had taken matters into his own hands.”

“You should have just told your parents or the cops. _Like a normal kid_.”

“But we’re were never normal children, were we, Victor?” Mycroft cooed. “We don’t come from a normal family. Besides, did you ever come forward whenever your father caned you for acting too feminine?” His smile became ugly now. “Does your arm ache when the weather turns cold?”

“Don’t,” Victor was on his feet now. “Compare my family to your family.”

“You’re right,” Mycroft said lazily. “Your family is so much worse.” Briskly, he added: “I have asked you nicely, after the first rehab stint, then the second. I asked you not so nicely after your father struck him across the head with the fire poker. I am no longer asking, I am telling you, stay away from my brother.”

“Or?” Victor challenged him.

Mycroft slid his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a silver mobile telephone.

Curious, Victor studied it as Mycroft slid it open. The mobile made him think of the communicator thingamabob Captain Kirk had used in the old _Star Trek_ series.

“Technology is an amazing thing,” Mycroft murmured as he pressed buttons on his mobile. “This style of mobile won’t be on the market for another two years. But it’s bloody marvelous. Everyone will want one. It’s like a little computer that fits in the palm of my hand. I can play solitaire, I can write a message and send it to another mobile instead of calling, I can pull up a map, I can keep a diary, what else, ohhh _yes_ …” Mycroft held up the prototype for the Nokia 7650 so Victor could see the little screen.

Victor’s jaw dropped. The image on the screen was tiny and grainy, but it was also undeniably him snogging the handsome black man outside the bar where they had met.

“It takes pictures,” Mycroft purred.

“Don’t,” Victor said immediately.

“Don’t what?” Mycroft tucked the mobile safely back into his pocket. “Don’t show Sherlock or don’t show your father?” When Victor remained silent, Mycroft checked his watch. “After midnight. Pity you were unable to control your cock. Two more days, Sherlock comes into his trust fund. How much did he tell you he’d be receiving?” When Victor still refused to answer, Mycroft purred again. “I assure you, it’s substantial. But you won’t ever see a penny.”

“I’m not with Sherlock for his money!” Victor finally cried out.

Mycroft scanned him from his bare toes up to his tousled blonde hair. Nervously Victor rubbed underneath his nose, as if he was wiping cocaine from the nostrils.

“Liar,” Mycroft said coldly. “I’ll show myself out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful beta'er confessed to having nicotine cravings after reading this chapter. I also must confess that I am also a reformed smoker... but while writing the Prague section I had a pen-cap in my mouth and I was unconsciously digging in my pocket for a lighter! 
> 
> Also - mea culpa, I try to answer everyone's comments after I post, but I actually have to go to work for the first time in weeks so I need to get to bed. Vacation's over :^( But I promise to respond as soon as possible so thank you for reading and commenting! 
> 
> Happy 2015!!!


	24. The Smiling and Beautiful Countryside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know,” Sherlock said as golden summer sunlight illuminated his face. “’But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. The is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbors, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser’***.” Sherlock opened an eye. “This trip is no holiday, may I remind you...?” 
> 
> At last... The Copper Beaches... also, John-angst. 
> 
> Happy Sunday!

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Smiling and Beautiful Countryside

10 August 2015  
221B Baker Street  
Monday morning  
8:37 AM

“Sherlock, hey Sherlock, wake up.”

Groggily, Sherlock lifted his head off his pillow. Looked up and saw “Violet Smith” standing over him. She wore a modest denim skirt, a pale pink top and faux pearls around her throat. She had applied her usual mask of make-up and straightened her chestnut hair. She had also carefully pulled her hair up into a neat pony-tail. Sherlock instantly remembered that was exactly how her hair was styled the day they had met, that blustery cold March afternoon.

“What time is it?” he garbled out. His sleep had been uneasy and unpleasant.

“Little after eight-thirty,” she told him as she fastened silver hoops into her ears. “There’s time for a shower and something to eat. Our cab taking us to Paddington won’t be here until ten. Mary’s making crepes if you’re hungry. John would probably appreciate the company.”

Sherlock yawned and stretched out his long legs and arms. He patted the other side of the bed. “Where’s Stone?” he asked, his voice undeniably pouty.

“Living room,” Violet said. “I’m letting him get used to the service dog vest.”

Sherlock nodded his approval. Sighing, he pushed the blankets off. “Everything ready?” he asked as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, scratching his flat belly.

Violet politely averted her eyes from his bare chest, boxer shorts and hairy legs. “Ready as we’ll ever be,” she said, turning to leave. “Everything’s packed and waiting by the door.”

“Good. Oh, two things. Violet?”

“What?”

“Your engagement ring.”

“Oh,” Violet looked at her bare left hand. “Shit. Yeah, thanks. That would have been bad. What’s the other? I know I’m not wearing my glasses, they’re on the coffee table.”

“Your watch.”

“My…” Violet instinctively covered the dainty gold wristwatch her brother had given her as a birthday gift. “Watch?”

“Yes. It is imperative that during this trip you do not take it off, not even at night, as you’re prone to do before bed,” Sherlock padded towards his wardrobe to select the shirt and suit he would wear en route to Cornwall.

“Um… OK. Going to tell me why?”

“Nope.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Because why would you do a silly thing like that?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock hummed, eying his shirts, trying to decide between the white shirt and the green one.

“Pain in the ass,” Violet shook her head, walking out of the room.

Sherlock smirked and selected the light green shirt.

**

10 August 2015  
En route to Cornwall  
Monday afternoon  
5:05 PM

“But I don’t like boats,” John groused.

Unlike his three travel companions accompanying him on this trip, John was born and raised in London. While he enjoyed and appreciated the occasional trip to the countryside (as long as it didn’t involve landmines, biological weapons and deranged hounds), he much preferred city life.

And he was no big fan of open water.

“If I enjoyed boats, I would have joined the Navy instead of the Army,” he persisted in his whinging. His arm and ankle had started aching and burning again. Plus the closer and closer the train rushed towards Cornwall, the higher and higher his anxiety climbed. He wouldn’t be so nervous if his arm and leg hadn’t been recently used as a dog’s chew toy. To his relief he discovered he could move  his left arm up and down with only minimal discomfort. At the very least, he could aim and shoot a gun. But there was no way he could run, not on his shredded calf and twisted ankle. 

“And I don’t know how to fish,” he finished his grumpy diatribe, crossing his arms and staring sullenly out the water, watching the pretty English countryside flash by. “You really couldn’t have thought  of a better lie?”

“I could have said mountain climbing,” Sherlock droned, his eyes closed. He lay on his back, head on arm, socked feet in Violet’s lap.

“Really?” she had initially complained, but he had reminded her it was “Part of the act, _darling_.”

Now she used his feet as a book rest as she tried to read a trashy romance novel she picked up at the train station. Something fluffy to read, just to pass the time; it was a five hour train ride from London to Cornwall, after all.

Plus, she really couldn’t blame him for wanting to stretch out. The train carriage they were in was not all that spacious. While she, John and Mary could sit in relative comfort, Sherlock would have had to have spent most of the trip with his knees to his ears.

Plus, Gladstone occupied most of the floor, his long furry body on top of John and Mary’s feet. Sherlock’s feet were, of course, in Violet’s lap. Violet meanwhile had removed her sandals and placed her feet gently on top of her dog. Occasionally she would massage his rump with her toes. The dog made an almost human sound of enjoyment and twitched his tail contentedly in his sleep.

Violet’s hazel eyes flicked over to John and Mary. While she and Sherlock were playing the part of the Happily Engaged Couple, John and Mary definitely did not look like they fit the role of Happily Married Couple. They looked like they were auditioning for the roles of George and Martha in _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?_

Mary had been trying to knit a baby blanket for Molly during the journey. However, her distracted thoughts kept causing her to make a pig’s ear of it. “Damn,” she muttered and started to unravel her latest mistake.

John meanwhile had been dozing off and on during the entire train ride. When his injuries started bothering him, he woke up fully and had become uncharacteristically whiny.

With Sherlock stoically staying quiet and John constantly complaining, Violet wondered if the two men had switched personalities.

“John, there’s some ibuprofen in my purse,” Violet said, giving up on the silly book. She had just read a passage about the heroine viewing her lover’s “engorged, turgid member” for the first time. Violet toyed with the idea of just chucking the book out the window. 

 _Goddamn it, when I want smut, I want good smut_ , she inwardly sighed, shutting the book now. _Should have grabbed that copy of_ 50 Shades of Gray _, just to see Sherlock blush_ , she thought impishly, glancing at the long, lean man whose feet rested on her lap. 

“I knew that book would bore you,” Sherlock murmured, “Should have snatched up _50 Shades of Gray_ when you had the opportunity. You seem to be the type to be into whips and chains. I deduce you experimented with mild bondage while in university. Handcuffs. Blindfold.”

As her cheeks turned rosy-red, Violet hurled the smutty paperback novel at Sherlock. Without even opening his eyes, he caught the book then dropped it right in front of Gladstone. Gladstone woke up, sniffed uninterestedly and dropped his head back down to his paws. 

“ANYWAY,” Violet glared at Sherlock while John and Mary stifled giggles. “JOHN.”

John cleared his throat, his eyes watering from trying to maintain his composure. “Mmhm, yes?”

“Would you like some ibuprofen? Or are you OK?”

“Um, yes,” John’s voice was strangled. Violet could have killed Sherlock for his apt deduction ( _It was once! ONCE I tried that with the boyfriend at the time!_ ) But at least Violet’s mortification shook John out of his rotten mood. “Yes, I’m OK. Say, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“How is it that you always manage to attract a dominatrix?”

“Rude, John,” Sherlock snarled. “Rude.”

“Congratulations on your engagement by the way,” Mary fawned. “Which sex shop are you two registered at?”

“Oh ha ha,” Violet said sourly, her need to throttle Sherlock for his big mouth growing.

“Hey, I bet we can find a bargain on his-and-hers whips,” John chimed in.

“Oh yes, Two-for-one,” Mary added brightly. “Times are difficult. Best to be frugal.”

“Absolutely,” John said. “I’m sure Lestrade can find some used handcuffs for the pair of you.”

“It was one time!” Violet cried out. Then to Sherlock, she spat “ _Jackass!_ ”   

“Oh, if you want to try something new, I have some scarves that are out of fashion now,” Mary smiled. ”They’d make lovely blindfolds. Or if you need a restraint, even. One is quite long.”

“That’s what she said,” John’s eyes sparkled mischievously as Mary playfully slapped his unhurt arm, giggling like a schoolgirl. 

Violet glowered at Sherlock. “See you’ve done?” she snapped.

Sherlock opened his eyes the smallest slit and studied John and Mary. Smiling and giggling together. Saw John’s eyes soften as he regarded his wife.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I see.”

He closed his eyes all the way.

He didn’t want to see anymore.

Now Violet was the one pouting. “It was _one time_ ,” she muttered under her breath again, her cheeks still pink.

John and Mary giggled again. Violet scowled ferociously, eyebrows scrunched together.

What the Watsons didn’t realize was Violet wasn’t ratty because they were teasing her about her sex life.

She was angry because she had to pretend that murderous lying bitch was still her friend.

 _Fuck you Mary_ , she seethed to herself as she stared out the window, not really seeing the landscape _. Should have left your sorry ass for Mycroft when I had the goddamn chance. When does my life get to be my own again?_

She made herself start taking long deep breaths through her nose, counting to five, then parting her lips and exhaling, counting to five. The yoga breathing technique, _pranayama_ , usually helped her calm down when she became highly stressed or irrationally angry.

The breathing exercise worked. Violet felt in control again. She reminded herself of the old adage “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” It wouldn’t do to fly off the handle. If Mary died, Sherlock died. It was that simple and that brutal.

She glanced over at the lanky man who still rested his feet in her lap, knees crooked up, fingers now tented. She felt affection flood through her for him even as she thought: _I am going to get you back for blurting that out_ , Shezza, _mark my words_.

She propped her elbow up on the window sill and looked out, really observing the countryside now. England, new again, for her at least. “Wow,” she breathed. “It really is as pretty as they say it is out here, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” John turned his head again to look out the window. “It is rather fresh and beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

Sherlock snorted in disdain: “Do you know John,” he said “’that it one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject? You look at these scattered houses and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only though which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.’ **”

“Sherlock, _honestly_ ,” Mary shook her head, “For heavens’ sake.”

At the same time, Violet said, “Wow, that’s morbid.”

John pointed out, “You’re not even _looking_.” 

Still reclined, eyes still closed, Sherlock muttered, “’They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief… founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin that does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’ **” He paused. “Or seaside, in our case.”

“Sherlock,” John scolded him. “Sometimes you really horrify me, you know that?”

“I know,” Sherlock said as golden summer sunlight illuminated his face. “’But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. The is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbors, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser’ **.” Sherlock opened an eye. “This trip is no holiday, may I remind you?”

“Right,” John mumbled, feeling jittery again.

He and Violet exchanged the briefest of glances, but they shared the same thought.

Sherlock’s childhood home had been completely isolated. That made it easy for the young monstrous Heathcliff to stalk and terrorize him. 

Mary, meanwhile, chewed on a hangnail as she got lost in her own thoughts.

Silently, she plotted what she would do to Mycroft Holmes in order to get her daughter back.

_He’s lying. He knows where Maisie is…_

Soon, too soon, the train screeched to a halt at the station. Gladstone’s head popped up when the train stopped moving.

Sherlock reached down and scratched the dog’s cropped ears. “Yes,” he crooned. “The game is on, my furry friend.”

Sherlock and Violet put their shoes back on. The women gathered their handbags.

Eventually, they got out of their carriage, their progress hampered by John. The old cane had come out of retirement again but this time, John would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t glad he had kept it. Mary, ignoring John’s claims he didn’t need her assistance, hefted his rucksack, (containing his laptop, their mobiles and his Browning) onto her back. Meanwhile John grasped the hated old cane in one hand and Gladstone’s leash in the other.

Slowly, they made their way to collect the rest of their baggage and piled it on a trolley. The women and John ganged up on Sherlock and bullied him until he grudgingly pushed the heavy trolley towards the exit.

“What on earth did you pack? Bricks?” Sherlock huffed irritably.

“Cinderblocks,” Mary retorted promptly.

Violet snickered. John giggled. Sherlock huffed and grumbled.

Once outside, Violet could detect a tang of salt in the air. She hadn’t realized how close to the English Channel they were. The breeze felt wonderful on her face.

But soon, she joined in the others in looking for their ride to The Copper Beaches. In fact, it was Violet who spotted the sign and said, using her “Miss Smith” voice now: “Is that us?”

The detective, the doctor and the assassin turned to look at what the federal agent pointed at.

“Oh no,” Mary moaned.

“Fucking hell,” John hung his head.

Bill Wiggins stood in front of a pearly white SUV, holding up a cardboard sign reading “Holmes/Watson.”

“Ah, yes, excellent,” Sherlock beamed, pushing the trolley towards the SUV.

“Who is that?” Violet asked, adjusting her fake eyeglasses, wondering if her vision really was going to hell.

“Oh, you’ll see,” John promised her, rolling his eyes heavenwards. _The Lord is testing me…_

“M’name’s Wiggins, m’friends call me The Wig,” Wiggins stuck his hand out at Violet when she approached.

“No,” Sherlock told Wiggins as he opened the rear door of the posh SUV and started hefting luggage into the back.

“Right, OK, so my friends call me Bill. You must be Shezza’s bird, Viola.”

“Violet,” she corrected him as they shook hands while Mary helped John into the SUV.

“I’ve got it, Mary,” he snapped at her, the sweet moment in the train already forgotten.

Mary ducked her head, turned away from John and went to help Sherlock load the luggage.

Meanwhile, Wiggins nervously glanced at Gladstone. “Nice service dog… you ain’t blind, so what’s he for?”

Without missing a beat, Violet Smith said “He sniffs out the stupid for me.”

Sherlock sniggered.

“Ah, that’s useful,” Wiggins said lamely.

“Speaking of useful, how about you cease irritating my fiancée and assist me with loading the luggage?” Sherlock barked at Wiggins.

“Fiancée?” Wiggins clearly felt gobsmacked. “For real? Not like with that Janine-whozzits for the Magnussen case?”

As Violet displayed her left hand, the diamond sparkling in the afternoon light, Sherlock called to Wiggins, “Never speak of that case again. If not inconvenient, come assist us with the luggage as Mrs. Watson has packed cinderblocks.”

“You told us to pack for two weeks,” Mary grumbled under her breath.

“Huh, wow, err, congratulations,” Wiggins scratched the back of his head. “Guess I just never thought as Shezza as the marrying kind.”

“Neither did I,” Sherlock, John, Mary and Violet all said at the same time.

Under different circumstances, it would have been funny.

Wiggins immediately picked up on the tension. “Right. So, luggage,” he said, scurrying off to help Sherlock and Mary.

Violet took the orange service vest off of Gladstone and told him as she snapped her finger: “ _Auf_.” The Alsatian leapt into the SUV. Violet climbed in after him. “How are you doing?” she asked John, who sat in the front passenger seat, fiddling with his cane.

“To quote a meaningful passage from one of my favorite films: _I’ve got a bad feeling about this_.”

Violet smirked at the _Star Wars_ reference. But her voice was calm and comforting when she told him: “Everything will be fine, John. Sherlock said the toxicology reports Mary found clearly shows that there was a powerful hallucinogenic drug in Lady Elise’s system the day she died. So she wasn’t in her right mind when she cut her wrists. The Met surely must have found the secret compartment in Rucastle’s office, so Westaways and Persephone Ltd. are connected now. Sherlock also said the Homeless Network didn’t find the girl in the warehouses, so she’s _here_. She’s here and so is the evidence connecting Rucastle to the Earl which is-”

“Her journals or her photography, or both,” John sighed. “Assuming they haven’t been destroyed. This is a really big risk, for all of us, a risk based off of an assumption.”

“Based off of a deduction,” Violet corrected him. “How often is Sherlock wrong?”

“Not often,” John admitted out loud but to himself he added _But when he’s wrong, it’s fucking disastrous_.

He recalled Appledore and immediately felt sick.

“John, everything will be fine,” Violet repeated herself.

“I wish you would say that to my face,” John turned around in his seat in time to see Violet’s perfectly constructed confused expression. He smiled knowingly at her. “Sherlock says when you lie to your loved ones; you can’t look them in the eye. It’s your tell.” 

The confused look slipped off her face. Violet Hunter rolled her eyes and whispered, “That jackass,” under her breath. Then she re-assumed her “Miss Smith” persona as Wiggins climbed into the driver’s seat. Mary and Sherlock got into the van as well. After some confusion as to who was sitting where (since Gladstone had decided that the entire third row of seats was his), they began their hour drive to the Copper Beaches.

It did not disappoint.

“Oh… my… God,” Mary gasped in surprise and delight. “Is that really it?”

John, Wiggins and Violet also goggled in surprise as they pulled into the driveway.

Everyone had been expecting something spectacularly tacky. However, the six bedroom house, on a tree-covered hill next to the blue and tranquil Helford River, was the epitome of simplistic elegance. As the summer sun hit the sandstone bricks of the house, it seemed to give off a coppery glow.

Only Sherlock looked utterly unimpressed.

Wiggins whistled. “For a Not-a-Holiday, this is a pretty snazzy place, Shez.”

“You should stop talking now,” Sherlock advised Wiggins as he brought the SUV to a stop in front the lovely little mansion.

The Tollers came out the door, followed by Rucastle and (taking Violet by surprise), Tristan. Tristan looked washed-out and half-asleep, but at least she had on a clean sundress. Mrs. Toller looked as sallow and stringy as ever, her greasy hair scraped back into its uncompromising knot. She wore a shapeless denim dress and ugly black trainers. Toller still wore his dove-grey suit, with an orange tie and orange handkerchief in his breast pocket. His eyes still looked watery.

Violet still couldn’t figure out if they were husband and wife or son and mother. 

Rucastle wore hideous bright pink Bermuda swim trunks and a flowing red and pink striped dressing gown that flapped open… and nothing else.

Violet realized she hadn’t seen these hideous people in three days. She also realized she hadn’t missed them one little bit.

“Stick to the plan and everything will be fine,” Sherlock promised them all in a low voice. “We’ll be out of here by tomorrow evening at the very latest.”

“God, I hope so,” John said, staring at Rucastle, trying to hide his shock and disgust.

“Steady, John,” Sherlock murmured before leaving the van, “Part of the show.”

“Right,” John said, trying to plaster an excited smile onto his face.

“You made it!” Rucastle boomed, holding his arms out, as if he planned on giving Sherlock a great big bear hug.

“We did indeed,” Sherlock deterred him by presenting the bottle of expensive wine Violet had purchased the day before. Rucastle accepted the wine with a cry of joy and shook Sherlock’s hand instead. When Rucastle still looked a bit disappointed at being cheated out of his hug, Sherlock assuaged him by saying in a fawning voice no one realized he possessed, “What a lovely home you have.”

“Oh yes,” Rucastle preened, looking around. “My pride and joy, the jewel in my crown. Welcome to the Copper Beaches. Ah, I see you did bring your dog?”

“Yes,” Violet Smith said, apologetically. “I really appreciate you letting us bring him. When the kennel called this morning to tell us we they were overbooked, I really didn’t know what to do. Our landlady is on holiday otherwise she normally watches him,” Violet held onto Gladstone’s leash tightly. Her stomach hurt as she remembered what John and Sherlock had told her about the dog fighting ring they found. She had already vowed not to let Gladstone out of her sight for one second.

The word “ _rache_ ”, Gladstone’s kill command, sat heavily on the tip of her tongue. All she had to do was say the word and let go of the leash. Gladstone would take care of the rest.

While it would be satisfying to watch Gladstone savage the fat pig, that would not help them find the missing girl.

So Violet swallowed the command and smiled gratefully at the worst boss she had ever had.

“Well he’s a magnificent dog,” Rucastle admired the Alsatian. “Looks strong as anything. Purebred?”

“Not sure,” Violet lied. “He’s a rescue. He’s just an old softy.”

“Aw,” Rucastle smiled indulgently. “You have a kind heart. But forgive my rudeness, this must be the Watsons. I say, what happened to your leg Dr. Watson?”

“Oh,” John tried to look embarrassed. “Had a bit of an accident.”

Mary chuckled affectionately and took John’s hand, “Silly man took a tumble on his bicycle. Twisted his ankle, he did.”

“Well, you’re a braver man than I, riding a bicycle in London traffic,” Rucastle said heartily. “And this ravishing woman must be the famous Mrs. Watson,” he walked up to Mary and held out his hand. When Mary reluctantly placed her hand into his meaty paw, Rucastle lifted it up and pressed his blubbery lips to her knuckles. “I am a big fan of your husband’s blog, Mrs. Watson.”

“Oh, how kind,” Mary deftly hid how the obese, shirtless man made her flesh crawl.

“I simply love your pixie cut and the platinum blonde color? Very fashion forward.”

“Well, thank you,” Mary politely pulled her hand out of his.

“In fact, it is downright criminal,” Rucastle wagged a scolding finger at John. “How Dr. Watson has neglected to mention in his blogs just how lovely The Missus is, hasn’t he?”

“Oh, well,” John blustered, “I…” he shrugged helpless while shooting Sherlock a _Help Me_ look.

But it was Mary who said “Oh, I told him not to mention me or my looks in the blog. The blog’s about Sherlock, not me.”

 _Well played, Mary Mary, Quite Contrary_ , Violet thought. She kept her face a smooth, calm mask. “Mr. Rucastle, I’m sure we would all love a tour,” Violet simpered.“Your home is so lovely.”

“Yes, of course. And I believe I have told you to call me Jepthro. Toller, bring the bags to our guests’ rooms. Mrs. Toller, take the dog to the kennel after you bring my wife back to her room .She’s not well,” He said apologetically to his guests.

“Uh,” Violet tightened her grip on the leash as Mrs. Toller extended her hand, expecting her to hand Gladstone over. _No way in hell are you touching my dog, bitch…_ “Gladstone doesn’t do well around strangers. Let’s let him get acquainted with  everyone first before handing him off, yes?”

Rucastle now eyed the dog with a frown. “Not going to make a mess on my carpets, is he?”

“Oh no, he’s perfectly housebroken.”

“Miss Smith has a soft spot for her hound,” Sherlock put his arm around Violet’s shoulders.

It always seemed strange to John whenever Sherlock stepped into his Devoted Boyfriend Role, especially when he made public displays of affection.

Both Sherlock and Violet played their roles so effortlessly and naturally, John started to wonder how much of the show was really an act and how much of it was becoming real.

Violet had visibly relaxed when Sherlock draped his long arm over her thin shoulders.

 _And who is it becoming real for?_ John wondered as he limped behind everyone else as Rucastle began his tour of The Copper Beaches. _Sherlock or Violet?_

He had a sinking feeling it was Violet.

_Sherlock, please don’t hurt her…_

_Don’t hurt her like you’ve hurt me._

John shook that unbidden thought out of his head as Rucastle huffed and puffed and acquiesced with a great big phony smile to let Violet kept Gladstone with her for the time being. As Rucastle, with a grand dramatic flourish, announced they should commence with the tour now before they lost the light, John looked down at his cane, that old hated white stick that reminded him of Afghanistan and dead soldiers and his ruined surgical career.

Even though his limp went away after he had met Sherlock, no hospital in their right mind would hire an ex-Army surgeon with PSTD and the occasional hand tremor.

That dead weight had slipped off his shoulders after he discovered Sherlock and The Work. Sherlock, of course, had been right that awful night when Mary confessed her sins. John was an adrenaline junkie. The service and the surgery had been his addiction. Now 221B Baker Street filled the hole in his life that sniper’s bullet had created.

But that cane, that hateful cane and his aching arm and searing, throbbing ankle reminded him that once again, he was next to useless.

“John, love?” Mary called to him over her shoulder. Her eyes, as blue as the Helford River, looked worried. “Can you manage?”

He hated her for that. Hated her for still loving him. Hated himself for lowering his guard on the train today. Laughing with her, joking with her… it had been like old times. During the Great Hiatus, before The Resurrection.

“John?” This time it was Sherlock calling. His eyes, as usual, were unreadable.

“Of course I can,” he said gruffly, hobbling after them. “I can manage.”  

The Copper Beaches was indeed a handsome, impressive piece of real estate. As well as six bedrooms, it boasted of a spacious lounge, an elegant dining room and a gourmet kitchen that would have made Gordon Ramsey and Anthony Bourdain drool in envy. Detached from the house was a four car garage, constructed with the same sandstone bricks as the main house.

There was also a basement. Rucastle didn’t show them that. “Boring,” he said striding right past the basement door. “Storage. Laundry. Nothing interesting to see.”

Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes noted the door, busy mapping out the house in his ever-expanding mind palace. He kept a false, pleasantly interested expression on his face as he trailed after their host. Violet kept a death-grip on Gladstone’s leash, obviously wishing she had left him at home. Mary kept looking behind her, kept checking up on John’s progress. He lagged behind them, but he waved at them.

“I’ll catch up, just keep going,” he told them, hiding the strain and discomfort.  

But behind the house was its most impressive feature.

“Wow,” John said when he finally caught up with everyone else.

The sun had just started to set when the tour was complete. Brilliant colors lit up the western sky. There was just enough light however to clearly see the lovely deck and patio, the luxurious patio furniture, the enormous and sleek grill and the showpiece of the back garden: a magnificent infinity swimming pool. 

But all of that was upstaged by the massive Helford River, the deep blue water fading into a murky black. John could just make out a weathered old boat house on the edge of the river. And somehow, he could still smell the sea, a hint of salt in the air.

That, however, was all John could see and smell. He wondered what the Great Detective had observed as Rucastle led them around the house.

He hoped Sherlock had deduced where Evie Payne-Ellis was. As beautiful as this house and location was, he wanted to get the hell out of here.

Get out so he could start the search for his own daughter.

And decide what the hell to do about Mary. 

“I think we should have tea out here tonight,” Rucastle had finally wrapped his dressing robe around himself and tied the sash. The weather had finally dipped back down to its normal moderate temperatures for this time of year and part of the country. There was a hint of a cool breeze stirring, the small promise of the coming autumn.

“Excellent suggestion,” Sherlock said heartily.

John schooled his face to look neutral. Sherlock had been laying  the “Jeff is my BFF” act on _thick_. Fortunately, in this respect, John knew Sherlock far too well to feel jealous.

No, John struggled not to laugh out loud.

Rucastle was lapping up Sherlock’s praise and attention like a cat does cream.

“I agree, that would be lovely,” Violet simpered. John nearly laughed out loud at her demure, obsequious act as well. _If only you knew, Rucastle…_

Unexpectedly, a very unpleasant memory of Violet popped into John’s head. A very unpleasant memory of that awful day at the candy factory… the little girl Anderson had been using as a human shield had just run away… Violet had watched the child go and had coolly remarked _Well, wasn’t that precious…_ as she walked around to face that supreme arsehole Anderson. Then without any warning, she had viciously pistol-whipped Anderson across the face, crushing his cheekbone and nose. She had proceeded to beat him bloody and then jammed her gun against his forehead, her finger on the trigger.

And she would have pulled the trigger.

John then vividly remembered Violet blowing Jack Woodley’s brains out after Gladstone had savaged him.

Suddenly Violet’s deferential act wasn’t funny anymore.

 _She’s just as deadly as Mary_ , John realized. _And no one sees her coming, just like Mary. No one suspects, who she is, what she’s done and what she is fully capable of._ _Why is it I can reconcile  Violet’s violence and not Mary’s? Is it because Violet was once a law enforcement agent and Mary was an assassin? In this day and age, there is really a very thin line separating the two now, isn’t there?_

 _That’s bollocks  John_ , he told himself wearily. _And you know it._

_You can reconcile Violet’s violence and not Mary’s because Mary tried to kill Sherlock and Violet has saved his life. Twice._

_But Mary is the mother of your child and Maisie is still out there._

“Alright John?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his ear, shattering his reverie.

“Hm? Oh, yes. My ankle hurts,” he lied, knowing Sherlock would see right through the fib.

He didn’t care.

Toller materialized, startling John when he said, “The luggage has been put away and the rooms are ready for your guests. Mrs. Toller has departed to fetch Edward from his play date.”

 _Poor kids_ Violet silently sympathized with the tots that had to put up with Edward’s antisocial behavior. She had a feeling there were probably lots of tears shed during today’s play date and none of those tears shed by Edward.

When John had told her about the dead puppy they found in the kiddie pool, she had gagged. Then became resolved to get Edward out of this dysfunctional, deadly environment before permanent damage was done… assuming it wasn’t too late, of course

“And Mrs. Rucastle has gone back to bed,” Toller droned on, hands behind his back.

 _Yeah, right_ , John thought. He wasn’t sure if it had been intentional or against her will, but he could tell Tristan had been drugged to the eyeteeth. _Don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to observe_ that.  

Rucastle had also avoided showing them the master bedroom. 

“Shall I set the table for tea?” Toller added.

“No, we want to eat off our knees, of course set the table for tea!” Rucastle snapped.

“Very good, sir,” Toller gave a slight bow then turned to go back into the house. John detected a strong scent of rum when the PA walked past him.

 _Wonderful_ , he thought dismally, then started a sarcastic inner dialog with himself: _How was your holiday, John? Just spiffing, thanks! Spent it with a narcissistic serial killer and a drunken pyromaniac… but the view was to die for, ha ha._

He prayed to a God he now believed was absolutely ignoring his messages: _Please let Sherlock’s plan work, please please please…_

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Rucastle spread his arms out wide, as if he hadn’t been utterly rude to his manservant mere seconds earlier. “Although, you,” he marched over to John and threw his massive arm around him. “You, I want to bend your ear for a bit. Sherlock won’t divulge the details about The Fall, insists that The Official Version is the truth, but I have a feeling you know what really happened.” He slapped John jovially on the upper arm.

Exactly right on the spot where the deranged mastiff had bitten him. 

John nearly passed out. But he stayed upright and maintained his composure, although his face turned stark white.

Sherlock, of course, observed this and frowned, his mind going a million directions a hundred million miles a minute. _That wasn’t a friendly slap. That was a warning…_

_He knows. He knows John and I were at his offices and warehouses. Drat. Right… Plan B then._

“I don’t know the details of The Fall,” John managed to squeak out and even produce a smile. Meanwhile, Sherlock deftly and naturally gravitated towards the women, pretending to enjoy the view with them.

 _Sotto voce_ , he told them, “We’ve been compromised, moving to Plan B,” in Russian.

Mary calmly accepted this.

Violet, meanwhile, radiated fury. “Very well,” she said coolly enough, however, in the King’s English. Gladstone, sensing her tension, sat down right next to her and leaned his heavy, furry body next to hers. Violet looked down fondly at her dog and ran her hand over his head, finding comfort in his soft fur and big doggy-brown eyes.

“Good boy,” she told him.

Plan B was to scrap the search for evidence connecting the Earl to Rucastle. It was unfortunate, but couldn’t be helped. Since Sherlock deduced Rucastle suspected he and John had been snooping around, Evie Payne-Ellis’ rescue was now top priority.

The only perk of Plan B was they were all going to search immediately  for Evie tonight once everyone was asleep.

The bad part was they were first going to have to  get John off the premises since he was injured. That was where Wiggins would come in. He didn’t return to the village as he let Rucastle and the Tollers believe before driving off. He was only a few miles down the road, camping in his SUV, waiting for Sherlock’s call to come fetch John… and hopefully young Edward Rucastle. John and Wiggins would deliver Edward to the police. Wiggins had the original drawing Edward had done of the burning woman and a copy of the video Violet had made of Edward’s violent meltdown in the nursery. John would tell him of his professional observations of Edward attacking that little girl, Victor Trevor’s daughter at the Serpentine Lido. Then social services could take over from there.

Meanwhile, Sherlock, Violet and Mary would have to split up  to cover more ground in order to find Evie.

Violet hoped Sherlock would be able to drug Rucastle and the Tollers as  he planned.

Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry. She dearly wanted a glass of water.

Violet hated Plan B.

John, unaware of changes to the plan, continued to babble, “But, I can answer anything else. What… what was your favorite case?”

“Oh!” Rucastle’s eyes lit up. “’The Blind Banker’ is one of my absolute favorites. No one really seems to talk about that one much. To me, it’s utterly fascinating. Now, how exactly did a Chinese gang mistake you for Sherlock?”

“Oh, it’s a long story,” John gripped his cane, his ankle screaming in fiery anguish now. “Look, I don’t want to be rude or an agony aunt, but could we sit down?”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course. Apologies. You’re such a stoic little fellow, I nearly forgot about your injuries.” And Rucastle actually chucked John lightly under the chin.

Sherlock saw the murderous flash in John’s eyes and quickly joined them. “Jeff, I need the loo, where is it again? I can’t remember.”

“I thought you remembered everything,” Rucastle said silkily.

Both Violet and Mary held their breath. John just wanted to beat Rucastle with his cane.

Sherlock however, shrugged and gave Rucastle a dazzling smile. “I have an extraordinary memory and I practice the method of loci to recall the loads of information I have retained either through observation or education. But I don’t have an eidetic memory, I’m afraid. That would be the tabloids exaggerating again. Not to mention there is really no such thing as a true photographic memory. That’s an exaggeration of television and Hollywood.”

The two biggest liars in the world silently applauded Sherlock. _Such a fibber_ Mary thought while Violet silently sing-songed _Liar, liar, pants on fire…_ to herself.

Rucastle relaxed as John continued to clutch his cane. His ankle wobbled now. John didn’t know how much he could stand. Without waiting for an invitation, he sank down into one of the deck chairs while Rucastle gave Sherlock directions to the nearest bathroom.

As Rucastle began to probe John about the Blind Banker case, Sherlock did not go to the closest bathroom, of course. As soon as he was certain Rucastle was engrossed in conversation with John, Sherlock turned towards the kitchen instead.

He fingered the small vial in his trousers pocket. _Should be enough to knock Rucastle out until morning. Toller is already intoxicated; he’ll be under the table in a few more drinks. Violet can bring Mrs. Toller her evening tea and it’ll be lights out for her as well._

He heard the clattering sound of pots and pans. He paused, frowning at the closed kitchen door. His long fingers wrapped around the doorknob and gave an experimental twist.

The doorknob didn’t budge.

 _Locked_.

 _Not good_.

He exhaled quietly, thinking. He could pick the lock, of course. Easy. But time-consuming without the proper tools. And neither woman wore kirby pins in her  hair tonight. Soon his absence would be noticed.

“Damn,” he permitted himself a mild expletive.  But that was as far as he would allow himself to wallow in frustration. 

He had no choice but to return to the patio, now softly lit up by the exterior lights as twilight fully descended. He sat in the deck chair next to John, stretching his legs out.

Rucastle clearly enjoyed providing John his own personal theories and opinions regarding the cases in John’s blog. John had his “The Doctor is Listening” look on his face, nodding and commenting whenever Rucastle gave John the chance. But mostly John just nodded and said “Mmm,” a lot while Rucastle nattered on.

Meanwhile, Toller returned with an unknown servant to throw a tablecloth over the large round table, set up folding chairs and lay out the plates and cutlery.

Sherlock raked his eyes over the silent young man. Even in the soft glow of the outdoor lighting, Sherlock could observe that the young man was of Asian descent, Chinese obviously, Mandarin, possibly. Thin, but wiry. Well-built, strong but short. He was also bald, clean-shaven and dressed in black like a waiter. As the young man helped Toller set up for tea, Sherlock asked, “How many people does it take to keep the Copper Beaches running?”

“Along with the Tollers and Miss Smith, we have a maid that comes in the morning to tidy up, and a chef and his assistant come to cook lunch and supper. Breakfast you will all be on your own, I’m afraid. I like to have a lie-in on holiday. But please, help yourself,” he said, trying to sound generous. “There’s plenty.”

Sherlock continued to study the young man as he started fussing over the flowers in the centerpiece. His black shirtsleeve hitched up slightly as he reached to remove a wilting daisy.

Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw the Black Lotus tattoo on the young man’s wrist.

 _Definitely not good_.

The foot soldiers had the tattoos on their heels. _Maybe this one’s higher up on the food chain?_

_Still, most definitely not good._

“Where does the extra help stay?” Sherlock asked with practiced boredom. “Surely not in that manky old boathouse.”

Rucastle laughed. “No. They’re townies. They go home when their work is done. But they are very discreet,” and with that, he immediately began bragging about the A-listers who had stayed at the Copper Beaches.

Mary and Violet pretended to be chatting but Sherlock knew they were dying to know whether or not he had been able to drug Rucastle’s food. So he took his mobile out of his pocket and snorted in disbelief. “Apologies, my brother is texting me,” he grumbled, his thumbs flying over the touch screen. 

 _Mycroft never texts unless Sherlock texts first_. Oh God, what’s gone wrong? John despaired. _This is all going to hell already_.

Mary felt her mobile vibrate in the back pocket of her khakis capris but she didn’t immediately reach for it. She had heard Sherlock’s snippy comment about his brother. When she felt her mobile vibrating, she knew Sherlock wasn’t texting Mycroft.

Once she saw Sherlock engage Rucastle in conversation, she then turned her back on the boys and checked her mobile:

Plan C – SH

Feeling Violet’s eyes on her, Mary shook her head.

 _Fuck_ Violet thought. _Now what?_

 _Rache rache rache rache_ … she petted Gladstone over and over.

_My fingerprints are everywhere in Rucastle’s house… shit shit shit shit…._

She stroked Gladstone with her fingertips.

She glanced at the young Asian man helping Toller. _And just who the hell is that?_

She got a good look at him when he seated her next to John at the round table. Mary was on his other side. Sherlock was next to Violet. Rucastle sat between Sherlock and Mary. Her profiler’s mind whirled as he smiled down at her while pushing her chair in. There was something not right about that young man, but she had no proof… until she saw Sherlock quickly glance at the young man then reach under the table for her hand. Gave it the briefest of squeezes then dropped it.

Anyone else would have thought that was a sign of affection. Violet knew better. It was a warning. Sherlock had _seen_ something.  

And he hadn’t been able to drug Rucastle’s food. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ Violet thought as she reached for her water glass while Toller wheeled out the tea trolley.

While Rucastle began droning on about his favorite subject (himself) again, Toller poured tea for everyone, asking politely if they wanted milk, sugar or lemon. Meanwhile, the young man came out, carrying a tray laden with pastries and little fairy cakes and dainty macaroons in an assortment of all kinds of pastel colors.

John’s mood soured even more. He had been hoping for a meal a bit more substantial than dessert. Even plain old fish and chips or beans on toast would have been great at this point. He felt profoundly glad that Sherlock had first told Violet then Mary to pack nutritious snacks. He had probably deduced Rucastle would only have sugary foods and knew John and the girls required a bit more than that for sustenance.

Sherlock, of course, was Working and Not Eating.

But he took the tea from Toller and sipped it as Rucastle continued to drone. Toller toddled around the table, pouring tea and making it to order. He added three sugar cubes and milk to Rucastle’s tea. As Rucastle slurped the tea and gobbled the pastel little treats by the handful, John felt his appetite evaporate. _What a gross man_ , John thought as Toller added a sliver of a lemon slice to Mary’s tea with a pair of silvery tongs.

“Milk, not much and no sugar,” John told Toller when he got to him.

“And you, miss, I know. Milk and sugar, drat, I’m out of milk. Apologies,” he bowed and took the tea trolley with him.

Violet really didn’t care whether or not he returned, but he did with Violet’s cup. “Here you go,” he wheezed, setting it down in front of her. Violet frowned before could help herself when she saw the strawberry pink liquid in her cup. She knew immediately it was that awful Shan Zha tea. Toller ignored her grimace and set the little silver jug of mug on the other side of John. Then, like a ghost, he simply drifted away.

Violet, knowing there was no way in hell she would get away with not drinking it, brought the cup to her lips. As usual, it tasted bitter and metallic. It tasted worse than usually, eye-wateringly tart. Toller didn’t put enough sugar in.

She looked around the table desperately but didn’t see a sugar dish. “John, could you pass the milk please?” she asked, resigned to her fate. 

“Huh, oh yes, of course,” John passed the little silver jug to her. Violet smiled her thanks, added more milk and nibbled on a pastry between sips of tea to wash the sour taste out of her mouth. “Mr… I mean, Jepthro, thank you again for inviting us all here. Even though it’s a working holiday for me, this is a treat. This is a fantastic summer home.” 

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock tented his fingers, leaned forward and smiled at Rucastle. “How did you acquire the Copper Beaches? I am sure the story is quite fascinating. Do tell us.”

 _Oh God, please don’t_ , John thought. He risked a glance at Mary. She had a pained, polite smile on her face. But John knew Rucastle had rubbed her the wrong way as well. He saw how she twisted the napkin her lap. Before he could stop himself, he reached for her hand and started rubbing comforting little circles on the top of her hand as Rucastle started yammering away.

Her hand… her hands, her small, smooth hands… hands that had held his face and wiped away his tears when he finally, finally allowed himself to fall to bits after Sherlock’s death. It had been the second anniversary of The Fall. Yes, he had cried a little at Sherlock’s grave shortly after the headstone had been erected, but he had stuffed those feelings down, just like he did with all his other emotions. Sherlock would have been proud of his lack of sentimentality. John had swallowed those tears, touched the onyx headstone and marched away, shoulders squared, heart dead. But on the second anniversary of The Fall, Mary had gently suggested they go visit Sherlock. That was exactly how she phrased it. Visit Sherlock. At the gravesite, she had held his hand then his face as he finally broke down, unable to hide the hurt any longer. Sherlock Holmes had finally been vindicated. Richard Brooks was proven to be a fraud, Moriarty was real and Sherlock was dead. And John seemed like the only one who still cared, who still waited for one more miracle… and he had thought that miracle was Mary.

But those hands, those hands that held him so tenderly, those hands that had brought him so much pleasure along with her lips and breasts and hips… those hands also pointed a gun at Sherlock and pulled the trigger.

An old argument reared in John’s head…

_There is going to be a time where you are going to have to choose between me and Sherlock…_

As Rucastle continued to jabber on about how the Copper Beaches was quite the steal as it had been in foreclosure during the Eighties, John wondered if the time to choose between Mary and Sherlock had come.

_And where does Violet fit in all of this… wait, what the hell?_

Violet had her head bowed. One hand was pressed to her forehead, the other to her stomach. Her face had turned as white as snow and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

“Are you OK?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m…”

John looked down at her hand in her lap. Her left hand. It was shaking.

 _Shit, she was supposed to have her doctor’s appointment today!_ John realized in horror. “Violet, maybe you should go lie down,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’ll come by and check on you.” 

She nodded, breaking out in a cold sweat now. “Apologies, excuse me,” she mumbled, staggering to her feet. “Stone, _komm_ …” she barely garbled out.

Blindly, she weaved through the house, looking for the staircase. She paused, gripping the banister, trying to catch her breath. Gladstone whined and pressed his muzzle into her thigh.

“I’m OK, Stone,” she gasped, just managing to keep her British accent. She pulled herself up the staircase. It seemed to take an agonizingly long time to get to the top. Step after step, she felt like she had missed something glaringly obvious, that she had been oblivious to a giant red flag waiving in front of her… but her mind felt sluggish and her stomach kept flopping over and over as her mouth watered.

But when she reached the top step and had to stop to dry-heave, she knew she needed a bathroom fast. She forced herself to run, barely able to remember which room they had put her and Sherlock in. Gladstone stayed right on her heels, whining the entire time.

She made it to their room, and more importantly, to the attached bathroom just in time. She knelt and flipped the toilet lid up simultaneously and retched miserably. Her eyes burned as everything in her stomach came straight back up. Angrily she pulled the fake spectacles off and dropped them to the floor. She wiped the hot tears from her eyes right before another bout of vomiting began.

When she felt confident there was nothing left to come back up, she reached for the flusher on the toilet with a shaking hand.

Only to feel Sherlock’s long fingers curling around hers, stopping her.

“Don’t,” he breathed into her ear. “It’s evidence.”

“What?” she rasped.

“You’ve been poisoned. Rucastle, he’s been poisoning you since the day you met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's three rants about how much he hates the countryside can be found in the original 'Copper Beeches' story. It's also one of my favorite passages from ACD canon. Sherlock Holmes has become such a bigger-than-life character, I think ACD's way with words gets overlooked sometime when it's being adapted for movies and TV. There are some really profound and poignant passages in the original stories. I think that's why I prefer the BBC Sherlock over Elementary, and yes, the RDJ version of Sherlock... even though I'll watch the shit out of that Sherlock because hey, it's Robert Downey Junior. I'd watch him mow the lawn. :^)
> 
> ***  
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.


	25. Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He turned his satellite radio on and fiddled with the buttons until he found a classic rock station. Soon, he was humming along to the Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction. 
> 
> Two car lengths behind him, a boring little beige sedan followed. “That ‘im?” the passenger asked the driver. “That the copper?” 
> 
> “Yup,” the driver said, “On his way home to the missus.” 
> 
> “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” the passenger crooned and then both men started laughing..."
> 
> It's the calm before the storm...
> 
> Happy Sunday!

Chapter Twenty-Five: Satisfaction

_“What?”_

If she hadn’t felt so shivery and weak, Violet would have lunged for Sherlock and choked the life out of him.

“Arsenic, low doses, low enough that they mimicked other symptoms, flu-like symptoms. He increased the dosage tonight, not to kill you but to incapacitate you,” he gently pried her fingers off the toilet flusher.

“Why?”

“So he could kill you tomorrow, of course.”

“WHAT? Why?”

“To frame John,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly before shooing Gladstone out. 

“To frame… what, I don’t…” Violet felt the room spinning. “ _Why?_ ”

“Later,” Sherlock sprang to his feet and ducked into the bedroom. Violet curled up on the tile floor, shaking from head to foot now. The tile felt cool to her cheek. She heard Sherlock unzipping one of his bags, then she heard water being poured and the clinking of spoon against glass. Then Sherlock was back in the bath, helping her sit up. “Drink this,” he shoved the glass under her nose. “It’s utterly foul and it will make you violently ill. But we have to make sure the poison is out of your system completely.”

“What is this?”

“Crushed mustard seed dissolved in water,” he told her. “It’s a natural emetic.”

She twisted her head to give him a vicious look. “You… _fucking knew_ … I was getting poisoned? You… you…”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know, I’m an arsehole, but drink the bloody emetic _now_ ,” Sherlock hissed.

“Fuck. You,” Violet snapped then forced herself to chug the contents of the glass.

The drink was just as foul as Sherlock promised. And results were immediate. Soon Violet was hunched over the toilet again. Only this time, Sherlock helped hold her up and he held her ponytail back.

When there was nothing left inside her and all she was doing was dry-heaving, Sherlock started stroking her hair awkwardly. His lips close to her ear, he murmured to her:

“I just put the puzzle pieces together, Violet. I solved that mystery Sunday morning, after you had come back inside after Mycroft had threatened you. The fact he gave us Chinese herbal tea confirmed my suspicions. Many Chinese remedies have been linked to accidental arsenic poisonings, or in this case, intentional.

Your symptoms were inconsistent and started occurring just as I was on the mend from my illness. I also did not personally witness many of these symptoms, other than the exhaustion. However you are also an insomniac. You also had the issue of the hand tremors prior to meeting Rucastle. I was obviously and unfortunately distracted by the mess in the baby cot when you got sick at the Lestrades’. But when we realized Toller was the one burning the bodies and John told me you were unwell, I rushed to Rucastles’ Belgravia house to get you out of there immediately. And I knew that Friday you would not be spending much of the day at the house. You would be with John in the afternoon at the lido and with me at the restaurant. I knew Rucastle couldn’t tamper with your food there. Also, you had believed that the food was making you ill, which you were close, but not quite correct. You ate breakfast at Baker Street and avoided everything at the Rucastles’ except for fresh fruit and plain bread, which they couldn’t poison without notice. I deduce you also stopped taking milk in your tea at the Rucastles’ house. But Toller prepared tea the way he thought you took it, the way you used to take it. The milk is where they were slipping the poison in… but since Rucastle took milk when you first met, I deduce that Toller had slipped poison in the martini he prepared for you. I remembered you had an upset stomach later that afternoon and complained how they must have used cheap vodka.”

Violet finally stopped retching. Her head was bowed and she still clutched the toilet bowl for support. She took deep breaths but still trembled.

Sherlock felt at a loss. Obviously there was something else he should do or say at this point.

Then the Molly-of-his-mind-palace ordered him: “Say you’re sorry.”

Then the voice of his conscience was right behind her. “Apologize,” Mind-palace John ordered quietly.

“My dear Violet, forgive me for not solving this sooner. I would have never put you in this unfortunate situation had I realized sooner what they were doing.”

Violet snorted. “Dear Diary, today the Great Detective admits he made a mistake.”

_And this confirms why I don’t go around issuing apologies_ Sherlock railed at his mind-palace John and Molly. _Pointless. Utterly pointless. People don’t care how you feel when you regret being Not Good_.

Mind-palace John merely lifted his fair brows. “If she’s being sarcastic, she’s on the mend.”

But mind-palace Molly glowered at Sherlock. “You’re lying to her, Sherlock.”

_Am not…_

As Sherlock watched Violet press a still-shaking hand to her forehead, the mind-palace Molly snapped back at him, “You’re not telling her the full truth. That’s still lying. Sherlock,”

“Well, obviously I can’t tell her the full truth now, can I? Sherlock argued with mind-palace Molly.

“What?” Violet turned her head.

“What?” Sherlock repeated, mentally kicking himself. He hadn’t realized he had spoken out loud. “Nothing.”

Violet’s hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What did you just say?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and was saved by, of all people, Mary.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Mary started to ask. But then took one look at Violet and was calling over her shoulder, “John. _John_. Hurry.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the real John groused from the hallway.

“And lock the door,” Sherlock commanded.

“Christ, alright,” John snapped. His anger washed away from his face when he saw Violet. “Jesus, what the hell… OK, there’s too many people in here,” John tossed the cane out the door and awkwardly inched himself down onto the floor to examine Violet.

Mary cleared some space by standing in the bathtub. Sherlock pulled an unwilling Violet between his knees and crossed his arms around her, then wrapped a long leg around her waist, pinning her.

Another unhappy memory reared its ugly head: last April, Sherlock coming down from whatever was in those speedballs that bastard Jack Woodley had been supplying him with. Violet sitting behind Sherlock on his bathroom floor. Wrapping her arms across his chest and her legs around his waist, trying to hold him down as he tried to get up in his half-addled state while he detoxed.

But Violet wasn’t detoxing, she was just horribly afraid. John and Mary both learned why when Sherlock succinctly explained how Rucastle had been poisoning her all this time.

“Why?” Mary said, oblivious to how ridiculous she looked standing in the bathtub.

 “To frame John,” Sherlock said calmly again.

“ _Why?_ ” Mary cried out as John’s face turned the same color as cottage cheese.

“They were going to kill Violet and pin it on me? Why?”

“To get you out of the way, of course.”

Mary pressed her hands to her mouth. She looked like she was about to cry. Her voice quavered when she finally lowered her hands to speak, “You said Alex witnessed Toller breaking into our home. He was planting evidence to frame John, wasn’t he? That’s why you didn’t want us going home to pack.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock leaned his head against the bathroom wall, eyes closed.

John cupped Violet’s face. It felt clammy. He reached under her chin and slid his fingers down her neck, searching for her pulse. When he found it, it was racing. John hoped it was because of the adrenaline flooding her body. John licked his lips and asked Sherlock. “Why would Rucastle want me out of the way?”  

“Oh, it’s not Rucastle who wants you out of the way,” Sherlock drawled.

“Who wants me out of the way?” John felt his heart rate speed up now as well. He threw himself into dangerous situations every case he had worked with Sherlock on. He had served his country by administering medical care under the most dire and hazardous of circumstances. This however, this situation was more frightening than he could have ever imagined. To have someone he adored, that he loved more than his actual sister (to be perfectly honest and perfectly heartless) to be killed and have that crime pinned on him. To be sent to prison for a murder he didn’t commit.

John knew he didn’t fear death. He never really had. There had been times he had nearly welcomed death with open arms. He discovered he was actually was afraid of being in confined spaces, being told what to do, being told what to wear and of never freely seeing his family again.

He was afraid of the sound of a barred door slamming shut and locks turning.

He understood now why Sherlock accepted the suicide mission to Serbia. 

“Who wants me out of the way?” John demanded again.

“Irrelevant at this juncture,” Sherlock drawled. Opening one eye and seeing John’s face reddening in rage, he said calmly, “John, it is not pertinent to the current situation. The person who wants you out of the picture is not here. It wastes time to focus on that now. Evie Payne-Ellis is our priority John. She is a frightened young woman who is at the mercy of the three villains in this house. She is the last piece of the puzzle. She conclusively ties Rucastle and the Tollers to the Burned Girls’ murders.”

“Have you figured out where she is?” John asked.

“Two ideas,” Sherlock breathed, loosening his grip on Violet but not letting her go completely.

“Then let’s find her and get the hell out of here. Now. _Tonight_.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “If we leave now, even with the girl, we will never learn the identity of Rucastle’s puppet master. Rucastle is simply not clever enough to come up with a scheme like this all on his own. No, John. Rucastle had to have help and I don’t have enough data to conclusively say who the true villain is, although I have it narrowed down to two.” Sherlock pursed his lips and jutted his chin up at John. “I need one more night.”

“This is not about you getting your adrenaline fix, you drama queen,” John hissed. “I don’t give a shit who the mastermind is, I only care about rescuing that girl then getting my family out of here, which, God help me, includes you, Sherlock.” When Sherlock only gave John a black look, he added: “Christ, _look at Violet_. He’s trying to fucking kill her too!”

“Which is how he overplayed his hand,” Sherlock said. “He is enjoying the game too much, he’s stretching it out. He honestly believes he is cleverer than me. He wants to be the one Who Stumps Sherlock Holmes. Right now he is downstairs congratulating himself. He honestly believes I, of all people, wouldn’t deduce that he had tampered with Violet’s tea. He believes _my love_ has blinded me to his crimes. But if we shatter that illusion _now_ , Rucastle will run and take his boy with him. That child has the potential to become the next Jim Moriarty, mark my words.”

Those sobering words chilled John to the core. Still, he persisted “Then we get the kid out of here too. Get him away from these lunatics.” 

“And Rucastle’ll simply call the police and we will all be arrested for kidnapping,” Sherlock said coolly. “He has a god-complex and he sees Edward as Jesus Christ. Do you really think we could just waltz out of here with the _only thing_ he cares about above himself?” Then Sherlock shamelessly played on John’s fears. “Besides, do you really think I could survive the public scrutiny after being accused of kidnapping… again?”

While John blanched as he recalled the scandal that lead up to The Fall, Mary slowly asked, “If the boy is his pressure point, perhaps we can use that against Rucastle?”

Sherlock regarded that for a moment and then coldly smiled. “Brilliant, Mrs. Watson.” He inclined his head towards her, “You are _finally_ learning from your past mistakes.” 

“Are we giving up on solving Lady Elise’s murder then?” Mary asked, choosing to ignore Sherlock’s backhanded compliment.

Finally Violet Hunter spoke up, “Hell no,” she rasped. “We bury them. All of them.” 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, resting his cheek against Violet’s hair, which had by now completely fallen out of its ponytail. “Could be dangerous, but yes, we can and will conclusively prove Lady Elise was driven to suicide while simultaneously locating Evie Payne-Ellis and delivering her to safety.”

“Shouldn’t we get Violet to a hospital?” John still didn’t like how pale Violet looked.

To everyone’s surprise, Violet shook her head. “That will spook the fat ass. Sherlock’s right, Rucastle would run but he’ll have the girl killed and dumped first.” She leaned against Sherlock. “I’m with the Most Observant Man in the World. He’ll know what to watch for if I start making a downward turn. But I think I’m going to be alright, seriously. John, please,” she pleaded, seeing a mulish expression crop up on his face. “Don’t fuss, OK?”

John’s face remained mutinous. “I don’t like it.”

Mary quietly said, “John, she’s right. Tell Sherlock what symptoms to look out for and what to do in a worst case scenario. But love, she threw up twenty minutes after finishing her tea. I doubt her body absorbed anything to do any real lasting damage. Besides, Sherlock said they just wanted to make her sick tonight.” Her blonde brows furrowed together. “He did it on purpose, didn’t he? Toller, running out of milk? He said he ran out so he could run back to the kitchen, put the poison in the tea and put the jug next to John. So we would all see John pass the milk to Violet. Rucastle and John had milk in their tea and didn’t get sick. And tomorrow, somehow, Rucastle would maneuver it so we would all see John either fix a cuppa for Violet or pass her the milk jug again. And that would have been the fatal dose. If things were still going according to his plan, somehow, the police’d be called and Rucastle would make sure forensics would find the jug with traces of arsenic and John’s fingerprints.”

“It is a rather brilliant scheme,” there was a note of admiration in Sherlock’s voice. “But yes, Mary, to answer your original question, the intent tonight was to merely incapacitate Violet in order to set the stage to frame John for Violet’s murder. Rucastle believes he currently has the upper hand. If he thinks differently, he will murder Evie Payne-Ellis and be on the first private plane to South America.” Sherlock snorted and added “Moron,” in his usual derisive manner, “As if anyone could get the upper hand over _me_.”

John pressed his lips tight together. “I still don’t like it,” he shook his head. “But OK. No hospital.” John ran his fingers through his silvery-blond hair, giving himself what Mary lovingly called his “hedgehog look.” “So what do we do?”

“We make a new plan,” Sherlock said.

After Sherlock rattled off the new plan, John immediately said, “I hate the new plan.”

“You hated the old plan!”

“Yeah, well, I hate the new plan more!”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Sherlock drawled.

“No, you’re not,” John sighed in resignation.

“Can I get out of the bathtub now?” Mary asked.

“Rucastle might be getting nervous, with us sequestered in here,” Violet pointed out.

John shook his head, “Mary told him we were going up to check on you. Knowing now that he was going to use me as the patsy in your murder,” John repressed a shudder. “He’s probably planning on using that against me as well. That I purposely made a misdiagnosis to lull everyone into a sense of false security.”

“Narcissism is Rucastle’s hubris, which will work towards our great advantage,” Sherlock proclaimed. Then to Violet, he asked “My leg’s gone numb. Do you think you can stand?”

“Wait,” John held out his hand then unwillingly turned to his wife standing in the bathtub. “Mary? A bit of help?”

“Of course,” Mary hopped out of the bathtub and helped John get to his feet. “Here, use me for support until we get your cane,” she said, her voice practical and calm. “Let us get out of the way, OK?”

Sherlock waited for Mary to finish helping John hobble out of the bathroom. Only then did he unwind his leg from around Violet’s waist and rise to his feet. Then he bent down again effortlessly scooped Violet into his arms.

“I can walk,” she muttered irritably.

“Yes, I know, but I’m impatient, there’s loads of work to be done,” Sherlock said as he carried her out of the bath and into the bedroom.

Mary had given John his cane back and was in the process of pulling the duvet and sheets back in the massive bed. As Sherlock put Violet down on the bed, John gave crisp, clear instructions of what to look for and what to do if there was still poison in her system. “Don’t dick around with this Sherlock, it’s not an experiment,” the doctor scolded the detective.

“I wouldn’t treat this like an experiment,” Sherlock scowled as he took Violet’s shoes off. “I would never do that.”

“One word,” John said serenely. “Baskerville.”

“That was _once_ ,” Sherlock snarled.

 “What about the Christmas party at your mum and dad’s?” Mary asked.

“Fine. Twice,” Sherlock pouted like a little boy caught coloring on the walls.

“What about last spring when you were a fucking idiot and drugged me so I wouldn’t follow you to meet Anderson?” Violet piped up. 

“You really are a knob, you know that, right?” John gave Sherlock a stern look.

“Oh get out,” Sherlock’s face crinkled up like he just ate a dozen lemons. “Mary, I’ll see you in the morning. John?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

John’s face softened. “Yeah, you too… take care of our girls, yeah?”

He reached up, ran his fingertips down Mary’s cheek and smiled sadly. Then he turned, hobbled to the door, unlocked it and limped towards the room he shared with Mary.

Mary looked at Sherlock with worried, wounded eyes.

“Time, Mary,” Sherlock reminded her. “Give him time.”

 She nodded. “You come get me immediately if Violet takes a turn for the worse. I’m still a nurse, you know. And I know how to hot-wire a car if necessary.”

“Of course. Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll be busy.”

Mary slipped out the door and Sherlock locked it behind her.

“Sherlock?”

He turned and saw her curled up in a ball on the bed. Gladstone lay next to her, his ears flat against his head, ready to defend his Mistress if and when necessary.

“Yes, Violet?” he clasped his hands behind his back.

“Who has anything to gain if John goes to prison? It doesn’t make sense.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “You’re the profiler, figure it out yourself.” He crossed over to the bed and sat down. Bending down to untie his shoelaces, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

Sherlock toed off his shoes then studied Violet for a moment.

Unexpectedly he leaned down and ghosted a kiss on her forehead. “Go to sleep, then. I promise that you will wake up in the morning.” He smiled at her and smoothed her hair off her forehead.

Then he got up, stretched and went to his duffle bag to retrieve the freezer bags and latex gloves he had Violet pack. “Now if you will excuse me, I have evidence to collect. It’s so convenient that all the guest rooms in The Copper Beaches have a mini-refrigerator.”

“You’re a strange man, Sherlock Holmes,” Violet let her eyes flutter shut as Sherlock ducked back into the bathroom to bag her vomit.

**

11 August 2015  
The Copper Beaches  
Tuesday morning   
11:37 AM

Jepthro Rucastle paced back and forth in his massive bedroom, frowning.

He snatched his iPhone off his dresser and checked the time again.

It can’t be…it just can’t be…

There should have been some sort of commotion by now. At the very least, Mrs. Toller should have tapped on his door to snootily inform him he was stuck watching Edward since Miss Smith was too ill to get out of bed.

Then he could let the good doctor know where the tea was kept, let him boil a kettle and bring Miss Smith a cuppa… and that would be that.

Not a great loss, Miss Smith, not really. Always butting heads with Mrs. Toller, not following the rules created to raise Edward and then having the audacity to argue with him about what’s good for his son… plus her _hair_.

Her fucking ginger hair. Long chestnut hair, just like Alice’s when she had been a little girl.

His bitch of a daughter’s face materialized in front of him.

He jumped when his second wife emitted a loud snore. He whirled around, wearing only his Egyptian linen boxer shorts. His gross belly hung well over the waistband of his pants. He fixed his piggy eyes on his bland, beige stick of a wife. He had thought she was different, but she was the same, she was exactly the same as all the rest. Whiny, demanding, bitchy, petty… human.

He didn’t want a human.

He wanted a goddess.

He curled his fingers into hooks. He stomped over to the huge bed he occupied with Tristan. The only good thing she ever did was conceive and carry Edward. Beyond that, she was useless. She wasn’t even pretty anymore.

He went so far as to pick up a pillow, clutching it in his huge hands, imagining pressing it down onto Tristan’s face until she stopped breathing.

But he stopped himself. She was Edward’s Mummy and he still loved his Mummy. 

Plus the idea of actually committing the deed himself was unsettling. He always had to leave the room when he told Toller to terminate the latest specimen selected for his Goddess project. He didn’t mind supervising Toller when he got rid of the bodies. In fact, he had admired Toller’s burgeoning artistic talents, until the drunken idiot had panicked and mucked everything up with that Toni Pandy girl, of course.

But actually… killing someone… instead of someone else taking care of it for him... 

Angrily he threw the pillow across the room. _Something is wrong… someone should have complained to me about Miss Smith by now… Sherlock should have come to me, asking if he could borrow a car to take her to the doctor’s in town… dammit._

He grabbed one of his favorite dressing robes, a lilac silk robe with a giant pomegranate embroidered on the back. He pulled it on with a jerk and belted it shut. _They think I didn’t notice them staring at my gut, the little cunts. What do they know of beauty? Miss Smith with her ginger hair and snobbish manners? Mrs. Watson with her cheap beauty school color-and-cut and insipid smile?_

_What do they know of real power?_

_The only power they ever experience is vicariously through their men. The good doctor and the Great Consulting Detective. Without them, those slags are nothing._  

In a filthy temper, Rucastle flounced through his beautiful house and stomped down the stairs.

And stopped dead in his tracks when, at the bottom of the stairs, he heard music… a piano.

Nobody _ever_ played that piano in the lounge. Rucastle had bought it more as a decoration  than as an instrument.

Heart pounding, he entered the lounge. His jaw dropped when he saw Miss Smith, a very healthy looking Miss Smith, playing Chopin’s _Nocturne #8 in D Flat_ on his piano. Her hazel eyes sparkled like topaz, her cheeks and lips were rosy and lovely. Her fingers flew across the black and white keys.

_What is this? She is supposed to be_ sick!

Heart racing now, he looked around the lounge. Mrs. Watson sat curled up in one of his armchairs, reading some sort of textbook. His heart stopped for a full beat when he read the word “Toxicology” on the cover.

Then his heart froze when he saw Edward sitting on Sherlock Holmes’ lap, munching on a Nutella sandwich. Sherlock appeared to be engrossed in the music.

He didn’t look concerned about his fiancée at all.

And that horrible dog of theirs, that fucking Alsatian, sat at Sherlock’s feet. _I’d like to see how long that beast would last in one of Gang He’s dog-fighting rings_ he fumed.

_Where is Toller? Where is Mrs. Toller?_

_And where in the hell was Dr. Watson?_

That worried him.

As placidly as he could, he rumbled, “Good morning.”

Edward whipped his head around. “Daddy!” he squealed, dropping his sandwich. Gladstone sniffed it and then gobbled it up. Edward meanwhile climbed over Sherlock, over the sofa and into Rucastle’s waiting arms.

Violet looked up from the piano. “Good morning,” she beamed.

She looked well, she looked really well.

In his growing panic, Rucastle didn’t notice she wore nearly a pound of make-up on her face.

 “More pink,” Sherlock had growled at her while Violet did her face earlier that morning. “Your cheeks need to be glowing, radiating good health.”

Mary looked up from the textbook Sherlock had borrowed from Molly. “Oh, good morning,” she gave him her patented “Everything is Lovely” Mary Morstan smile.

Sherlock grinned up at him. “Hope the music didn’t disturb you. Seemed sacrilegious, turning  the telly on in a place like this.”

“No, no, of course not,” Rucastle said cordially. “What a lovely way to wake up. You are feeling better then, Violet?”

“Oh yes,” Violet beamed. “I must have had a touch of the flu. But I feel perfectly well now. I made Edward his breakfast, but he said he was still hungry. So I made him a sandwich as well and Sherlock’s been kind enough to entertain him this morning.”

By entertaining him, she meant that Sherlock had taken out the crayons and drawing paper. “Draw me a map of this house,” Sherlock had wheedled the boy. “Tell me who lives in all the rooms here.”

Those drawings now were tucked safely inside his jacket.

 “And later, I was thinking we could go swimming, wouldn’t that be nice, Edward?” Violet asked the boy. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“Can Sherlock take me?” Edward asked wistfully. “Or is he playing with you instead, Daddy?”

Of course the little psychopath had attached himself to Sherlock immediately.

“Daddy has some work to do,” he kissed Edward on his plump cheek. “Of course Sherlock can go swimming with you and Miss Smith.”

“No girls,” Edward sulked.

“Edward, we’ve talked about this,” Rucastle’s voice held an ominous note.

“Oh, little children go through this,” Mary said sweetly. “It’s a phase, it’ll pass.” 

Rucastle longed to scream. But he stuffed his frustration down and civilly he said, “You are wise as you are beautiful, Mrs. Watson. I say, where is the good doctr?”

“Oh, he had to go back to London,” Mary said regretfully.

“He did?” Rucastle tried to hide the shock and failed utterly, “When? Whatever for?”

“A cab from town came and collected him early,” Mary closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “Our terrace house was broken into apparently.”

“What? No.” Rucastle felt his bowels turning into water.

“Oh yes, we have a friend who is a detective-inspector. He called quite late last night. Apparently one of our neighbors reported a strange man entering our home. Dressed like a plumber,” she shook her head. “John told me to stay here. Apparently the place is a wreck,” and Mary even managed to produce tears. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why would I mind? Of course I don’t mind,” Rucastle rambled, his cheeks starting to redden now as the panic continued to build up within him. _No no no no, how could have John Watson gone back to London? How did he manage to get past the security cameras? How did he manage to get past the Tollers? This ruins everything._ I need him _to take the fall for Violet._  

 “Well,” he boomed. “Least I can do is have Toller rustle us up some brunch.”

“Oh, Violet made us a fry-up,” Sherlock gave Rucastle his scary-smile, the one that got him compared to Dr. Seuss’ Grinch. “You did say help yourself. Oh! And Violet made a plate for you. All you need to do is pop it into the microwave.”

Actually, Mary and Violet had eaten the food Sherlock had ordered Violet to pack. Sherlock, as usual, wasn’t hungry.

“How kind of you,” Rucastle said hollowly.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Violet started playing _Fur Elise_ now. “It’s the least I could do, after everything you have done for me and my family.”

“Yes, well, I’ll have to plan something special for tonight… do you know where the Tollers are? I usually see Mrs. Toller about this time?”

The detective, the nurse and the tutor all gave the villain a blank look.

“No idea,” Sherlock drawled.

“I haven’t seen either one of them all morning,” Violet said regretfully.

“I fell back asleep after John left,” Mary said sheepishly.

The truth was the detective, the assassin and the federal agent had actually sent the Tollers on a wild goose chase.

“Mr. Rucastle is planning a dinner party tonight,” Violet Smith had informed Mrs. Toller earlier that morning, handing her a list. “He wants you to go to town immediately to do the shopping.”

Mrs. Toller had nearly jumped out of her skin, the teapot and cups she had been carrying on a tray crashed to the floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Violet had said as Mrs. Toller whipped around to glower at her. “Was that for Mrs. Rucastle?”

“No, it was for you,” Mrs. Toller had scoured Violet with her beady eyes from top to bottom. “Arthur said you were ill last night,” she had said, almost accusingly.

“I got better,” Violet had said blithely, trying not to gag. Mrs. Toller’s perfume was as cloying as ever. “Anyway,” Violet held the list up again, “The shopping.”

“He didn’t tell me about this,” she had eyed Violet suspiciously.

“Why would he?” Violet had given the old hag her coldest glare, almost daring her to attack.

But Mrs. Toller had backed down. Probably because the list was in Rucastle’s handwriting.

Of course, no one knew forgery was another one of Sherlock’s skills. He had perfected it during his Great Hiatus.

Meanwhile, while Violet had been manipulating Mrs. Toller, Mary and Sherlock had Toller in their sights.

“You first,” Sherlock had told Mary while they watched Toller skimming dead leaves off the surface of the infinity pool.

“Oh Mr. Toller, good morning, I wonder if I could ask you a favor?” Mary had asked with wide, blue and absolutely innocent eyes. “Do you have plans to go into town today?”

“No,” he said brusquely. He had still been wearing his dove-grey suit even as he cleaned the pool. But his jacket, yellow neck-tie and handkerchief were draped over a chair. He also wore Wellies over his trousers. He looked completely moronic.

“Oh that’s a shame,” Mary had laid the regret on thick. “I don’t know the area well and I’m not comfortable driving about myself. I was so hoping you were going to town. I was going ask you to pick up a bottle of something, for Mr. Rucastle. To thank him for his hospitality.” She paused then added, “And I would have been happy to give you something for your trouble. But I understand you’re busy, sorry, forget I asked,” she rambled on, sounding more like Molly Hooper Lestrade rather than Mary Morstan Watson.

But it did the trick. He had turned his watery eyes onto Mary and asked “What did you have in mind? For my trouble?”

“Oh,” Mary said brightly. “Well, since you’re going to pick up drink anyway, what’s your poison?”

The flash of panic on Toller’s face had been delicious. Mary had made sure she kept her face sweet and innocent.

But Toller, tempted by the promise of compensation for his trouble, gave in and took Mary’s money. Mary had thanked him profusely and ducked back inside. Then a few minutes later, Sherlock had sauntered out. “Good morning, Mr. Toller, how _are_ you this glorious day? I was curious,” Sherlock had said breezily, not giving Toller a chance to reply, “Did you have plans to go to town at all today? I was wondering if you could do me a favor…” 

“He won’t be able to say no,” Sherlock had told John, Mary and Violet last night when they were all crammed into the small bathroom after Violet had been sick. “He’s a functioning alcoholic. Obvious as you can smell the fumes off of him when he enters a room. His sclera is also yellow, jaundice. Liver malfunction. Cirrhosis. His drinking problem is why he botched the disposal of Antonia Pandy’s body. He had imbibed a bit more than usual. His tolerance is getting higher so he had miscalculated and had one too many. He was drunker than usual and got sloppy. He panicked and just dumped the body in the bin instead of displaying it like a marionette in front of the theatres. With both Mary and I asking him to buy wine for Rucastle and then telling him to pick up a bottle of something for himself, he won’t be able to resist. His addiction, his need for alcohol will override his common sense. The only thing worse than a drunk, is a stupid drunk.”

So Toller and Mrs. Toller had been dispatched to the village to complete their respective chores.

Rucastle and his son were alone in the house with Sherlock, Mary and Violet.

As Rucastle made his excuses and trundled out of the lounge with his son, Sherlock murmured to himself, “And so it begins.” 

“What now?” Mary whispered.

“Now he will contact the real mastermind behind this plot and let him know it’s all coming undone,” Sherlock tented his fingers. “The puppet will reveal the master.”

Indeed, once safely ensconced in his kitchen, Rucastle quickly shut the door and locked it. He fixed Edward a cup of hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and sprinkles. As his child enjoyed the unexpected treat, he took his mobile out of his dressing gown pocket.

His fat hands shook. It took him several attempts to compose his text:

It’s all going to hell.  
JW gone.  
Tollers MIA   
VS still alive.   
SH acting odd.  
Please advise - JR

He paced back and forth in his kitchen, running his hand over his mouth. His massive appetite was absent for once.

Then his mobile pinged.

Then it is fortunate I   
am returning to the   
Copper Beaches tonight.

Rucastle didn’t know whether  to be grateful or terrified.

**

11 August 2015  
Nearby Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ residence  
Tuesday afternoon   
1:47 AM

 Mrs. Holmes fancied a walk after lunch and her husband never could say no to her.

Arm-in-arm, they strolled down the pavement in the sedate suburb they had lived in for well over thirty years. The neighbors warmly referred to them as “The Cute Old Couple in the Red Brick House.”

Their neighbors had no idea the Holmes were filthy rich. Or had two adult sons.

Two very strange, brilliant adult sons.

“Do you think we’ll ever meet her?” Mrs. Holmes asked her husband wistfully. “William’s bird?”

“Well, if he wants your engagement ring to give her, yes,” Mr. Holmes joked.

Mrs. Holmes completely ignored the joke. “I shudder to think what on earth he tells her about us. She probably hates us as much as he does.”

“He doesn’t hate us,” Mr. Holmes put his arm around her shoulders.

“Then why does he put us off?”

“He’s busy, love.”

“Mickey’s busy too and yet he calls. He visits. I really don’t think it’s too much to ask for him to pick up the telephone once in a while. I see him more on the telly than in real life,” her voice was sad and small. “We had to find out from the _tabloids_ he’s engaged.”

“We don’t know if that’s true. The rags print a lot of rubbish.”

“I talked to Mickey this morning,” she confessed. “It’s true. It’s true and Will didn’t bother to tell us. His own parents.”

“Oh,” Mr. Holmes felt deflated. Defeated.

_He’ll never be close to us. The damage…it’s irreparable._

_He’s built a new family now, since his blood has utterly failed him._

“At least he told Mycroft,” he told his upset wife. “That’s something, that’s a positive step.”

“I suppose,” she leaned her head against his shoulder for moment. Then looked up at the love of her life and gave him a smile. “I’m silly, aren’t I?”

“Dreadfully silly. It’ll be alright love. Maybe Myc can convince the love birds to come home for Christmas? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“It’d be better than last Christmas, that’s for certain,” Mrs. Holmes shuddered.

As the Holmes turned around to walk back to their pretty red brick house, a nondescript sedan parallel parked along the side of the road.

The driver of the car sipped his coffee from a Starbucks cup and watched The Cute Old Couple in the Red Brick House walk home.

His gun lay in the passenger seat, covered with today’s newspaper.

**

11 August 2015  
New Scotland Yard  
Tuesday afternoon  
2:11 PM

“I should yank your badge for this!” Detective Inspector Walter “Whitey” Mason screamed at Sergeant Alex MacDonald. “Unauthorized surveillance! Getting a warrant for this Westaways and this Persephone Ltd. without running it past me first! Utterly… completely… absolutely fucking unprofessional!” 

Unimpressed by the tirade, Alex lifted a slender brow. “But cursing at me is professional?”

Whitey put his hands on his hips and glowered at the petite, reserved woman. “You are very lucky you were right this time. Otherwise this would have gone so much worse for you.”

Alex stood still and silent, as usual.

“Be thankful all I’m going to do is take credit for this win,” he leered at her.

She shrugged. “Better run it past Lestrade first.”

“What?”

“I didn’t get the warrants. He did.”

“WHAT?” Whitey screamed again, shriller than before. Alex was convinced he was going to blow out his vocal cords. 

“I got an anonymous tip. Ran it past my supervisor. That’s Lestrade,” she shrugged again.

“This is MY case,” he jabbed his thumb into his chest. “You report to me on this case.”

She shrugged again. “Was on loan to you while Lestrade’s out for his honeymoon. He’s back now. I report to him. Ran my tip past him. He went to the magistrate and got the warrant.”

That was the most Alex said to anyone at The Met.

“THIS IS MY CASE!” he screeched like a banshee.

“Just want to find the missing girl, like you,” Alex remained impassive.

Whitey inhaled in and out of his nose like an enraged bull. “This isn’t over, you stupid dyke,” he promised her lowly.

Two fiery red splotches appeared on Alex’s cheeks. She folded her lips together and left his office without saying a word. She made a beeline to Lestrade’s office.

“Alex, what’s up?” he asked as she sat primly down in the chair in front of his desk.

“Need to file a complaint against Whitey.”

“OK. Good. Why?”

“Called me a dyke.”

Lestrade ran his hand over his face. “That man is a walking public affairs disaster. OK,” he nodded. “Thanks for the head’s up. We knew the shit was going to hit the fan when we went over his head when we got those-” he made the obnoxious quotation marks symbols with his fingers “- ‘Anonymous tips’ connecting Persephone Ltd and Westaways. He shouldn’t have called you that though. Go, make your complaint. Then run home and pack a bag and get your ass on the first plane to Helston.”

“Helston, sir?”

Lestrade grinned. “Yeah, the Royal Naval Air Station’s closest airport to Rucastle’s summer home off of the Helford River. I’ve already called in a favor, you’ve got clearance to fly there. We have enough to get warrants on that bastard and the Tollers as well. I’m just waiting on the JP to sign off on it. You’re our Met liaison with the local Cornwall PD for this case.”

“Not you?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Molly’s not feeling well. Had a doctor’s appointment this morning and her blood pressure was higher than normal and…well, the doctor’s recommended I stick close to home, so it’s all on you, Alex.” He allowed himself a grin. “So get your skates on, girl.”

“My complaint can wait.” Alex’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood up.

She resisted pumping her fist in triumph as she all but sprinted down the halls of New Scotland Yard.

**

11 August 2015  
The Office of Paul W. Hillard, JP  
Tuesday afternoon  
2:20 PM

The magistrate just picked up his pen to sign the warrants issued for Rucastle and the Tollers when his mobile hummed.

Recognizing the number, he blanched, set his pen down and answered. “Hullo?”

“Paul, long time, no chat, how _are_ things?”

“Oh,” the middle-aged man took off his tortoise-shelled glasses and tugged on his tie, loosening it. “Busy as ever.”

“Good to hear . How is the family? Little bird told me there’s another one on the way.”

Nervously, the magistrate looked at the framed photograph of his wife and two small children. “Um, yeah. Yeah, we’re expecting again. Very exciting.” His heart pounded.

“Lovely. Listen, I haven’t much time. Are there three warrants on your desk? For a Rucastle and a Mr. and Mrs. Toller?”

He licked his dry lips. Hated how he had gotten entangled with this snake of a man. Hated how he had crawled to him, looking for a loan when his wife had been expecting Baby Number Two. They had needed a house because their old flat had been bursting at the seams. Everything had gone smoothly and Hillard had paid the snake back with interest… but that wasn’t _good_ enough, apparently. 

“Errr… yeah, they’re… they’re right here.” He patted the paperwork, as if he were afraid the warrants would try to  make a run for it.

“Good, good. Delay signing them, won’t you?”

“Um…” his throat had completely closed shut.

“Still with me, Paul?”

“Um… yeah. Yeah.”

“Good. Because I’m at your son’s school, watching him on the playground as he kicks a football around with his mates. Good looking boy, your son. What’s his name again? Darrin, no Devin, wasn’t it?”

A cold sweat broke out over the magistrate’s entire body. Terrified, he looked at the picture of his family again. Focused on his sweet blonde son who in fact, held a soccer ball in that photo.

“Yeah…” he finally spit out. “Devin. Ah, how long do I need to delay these signatures?”

“Only a few hours. At least two. Two and a half at most. That’s all the time we need.”

Hillard’s stomach unclenched. That wasn’t so bad. They would still be signed and delivered. Just a bit late. And if the villains were still apprehended despite the delay, that wasn’t any of Hillard’s doing.  Or fault.

“That’s not a problem,” he finally said.

“Good!” the voice on the other end of the line said brightly. “We’ll make the usual deposit by the end of the week, of course.”

“That’s… that’s not necessary.”

“Rubbish. Least I could do. Must dash, I bid you good afternoon,” and the line went dead.

Hillard pushed the warrants away from himself, feeling sick.

He knew the right then, the ethical thing to do was to turn his mobile into the authorities and have them trace the number to find the snake once and for all.

But five grand was still five grand.

And there was Baby Number Three on the way.

**

11 August 2015  
The Copper Beaches  
Tuesday afternoon   
3:37 PM

Sherlock, of course, did not get into the swimming pool. He lay on a lounge chair, in his dress shirt and good trousers, fingers steepled underneath his chin, thinking. His socks were neatly folded and stuffed inside one of his expensive Italian shoes that sat at the foot of the chair. 

Gladstone sat next to Sherlock. Occasionally, Sherlock would reach up and scratch the dog’s ears without opening his eyes.

The sweet scent of _Clair de la Lune_ perfume drifted towards him. He heard the annoying sound of metal scraping against the concrete as Mary dragged a deck chair beside him.

“And?” he breathed.

“Sounds like we’re going to have a party here tonight,” Mary murmured as she reached into her pool bag. Uncapping the lid of her sunscreen, she started slathering it onto her fair arms. “Small, intimate. But enough to outnumber the three of us.”

“So they think,” Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if they had been open. “You think they’ll be enough guests to serve as a distraction?”

“Oh yes,” Mary now started rubbing sunscreen on her legs. “That’ll be no problem. Also, judging by the way Rucastle was dressing down the Tollers, their boss, _the big boss_ , will be coming here. Tonight.”

Now Sherlock opened his eyes. He ignored the stunning view of the Helford River, sapphire against a robin’s egg blue sky. A few wispy clouds scudded lazily across the horizon. Cornwall must have escaped the debilitating drought that roasted the rest of England. Everything was still lush and emerald green.

But Sherlock had little use for the spectacular scenery.

His eyes locked on Violet, treading water in the infinity pool as Edward, corseted into a life-vest, floated sullenly near her.

He dug into his pocket, fingered her wristwatch. He hadn’t calculated _swimming_ into the equation…  _Must find a way to make this watch waterproof in the future_ , he thought.

Then he looked beyond the pool and back garden. He studied the dilapidated boathouse.

“Then we must make sure the reception is worthy of the monster,” he muttered as he reached for his mobile and sent a text to John. Once it sent, he slipped the mobile into his trouser pocket and closed his eyes again.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Why is Rucastle trying to frame John for Violet’s murder?”

“Because he was ordered to, obviously, Oh, he’s not opposed to the act of murder. He just doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. That’s why abduction was handled by Mrs. Toller and disposal by Toller. He just likes to… play with the girls. Turn them into his living dolls.”

“He did that to his daughter too, remember?” Mary stretched out on the lounge chair as if she really was on holiday and wanted to enjoy a bit of sun. “Kept her like a baby doll.”

“Her budding maturity intimidated Rucastle. As he does with all women, he tried to control her. But he also tried to suppress her development, deny the very fact she was growing up. A little girl is nothing to be afraid of but an adult female? Well, as the old saying goes ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’” He opened one eye a slit and cast Mary a catlike glance, “As you well know, my dear Mrs. Watson.”

He closed his eye and debated whether or not to inform dear Mrs. Watson he knew about the double-hit, then decided not to; he needed Mary to be on top form tonight.

He needed AGRA, not Mary tonight.

Mary must have decided to ignore Sherlock’s snide comment because she asked, “Then who is ordering Rucastle to have my husband framed?”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m not telling you, Mary.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because,” Sherlock said in his most disdainful and bored voice. “I want him alive.”

**

11 August 2015  
New Scotland Yard  
Tuesday afternoon  
5:20 PM

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lestrade yelled into the telephone while Alex nervously checked her watch. “He just needs to sign them. How bloody long does it take to scribble out three signatures onto three separate pieces of paper?” 

There was a rap on the door. Lestrade ran a hand over his silvery head as the door opened. A young woman stuck her head in. “Sir?” she held up three blue envelopes, heavily embossed with official seals. “Waiting on these?”

“Give ‘em to her and get out,” Lestrade barked. The terrified woman, obviously some sort of secretary, thrust the warrants at Alex and scarpered the minute Alex’s fingers touched the paper. Meanwhile Lestrade continued yelling into the telephone, “Yeah, we just fucking got them….yeah, well, delay wasn’t on our end, _mate_ , we should have had these two hours ago… yeah, well that’s not my division. Tell _His Honor_ I want a word with him in the very near future and God help him if these wankers get away.” He rang off with a slam.

“Sir?” Alex held up the warrants and her overnight bag.”

“Go,” Lestrade waved her off. “Run. Text me when you’re in Cornwall.”

Alex bolted from Lestrade’s office without a backwards glance. Lestrade sank into his seat with a sigh and a groan. Hilliard… the request for warrants had to have gone to Hilliard, of all bloody people. For years there had been rumors that Hilliard was on the take. If he had been paid off to delay these warrants, Lestrade wasn’t sure he’d be able to restrain himself.

_Maybe I should ask Sherlock to snoop around a bit_ , Lestrade thought wearily as he gathered up the paperwork he would work on at home tonight after Molly went to bed.

He closed his briefcase shut with a click and sent Molly a quick text to let her know he was on his way. He rubbed his sore neck as he cursed criminals and immoral judges everywhere.

He said his goodnights and made his way out of the building towards the car park. At least, being a DI had its perks, like having a decent parking spot assigned to him.

As he pulled away from New Scotland Yard and prepared to battle the horrifying London commuter traffic, he noticed a grey van following him a bit too closely.

Then it passed him at the first available opportunity.

“Paranoid,” Lestrade chastised himself. “Spending too much time with John and thinking too much about Sherlock. Need to get out more, mate.” 

He turned his satellite radio on and fiddled with the buttons until he found a classic rock station. Soon, he was humming along to the Rolling Stones’ _Satisfaction_.

Two car lengths behind him, a boring little beige sedan followed. “That ‘im?” the passenger asked the driver. “That the copper?”

“Yup,” the driver said, “On his way home to the missus.”

“Aw, ain’t that sweet,” the passenger crooned and then both men started laughing.


	26. Lead on, MacDuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Out of one of the tiny windows, Wiggins had watched Sherlock make his way up the slight hill back towards the house in the weak light of the coming dawn. Then he had drawled, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he acted like an overprotective boyfriend, he did” 
> 
> “Shut up, Wiggins,” John had snapped as he slid down the dirty wall..." 
> 
> And the dominos start falling down... 
> 
> Remember, I'm a needy writer who needs comments to feed my ego.... OK, not really, but I do enjoy reading and replying to comments so please don't be shy!
> 
> Happy Sunday!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Lead on, MacDuff 

11 August 2015  
The Copper Beaches  
Tuesday evening   
8:00 PM

Sherlock, Mary and Violet were outnumbered three to one.

Rucastle’s guests, to Sherlock’s dread (but not to his surprise) turned out to be members of the He family. They ran a blossoming fashion company in Hong Kong, which rumor had it also operated as front for the Black Lotus criminal syndicate. This little group consisted of four males wearing impeccable, tailored suits and one tiny, wrinkled woman who appeared to be as harmless as someone’s cherished granny… until one looked into her pitiless black eyes. 

“Last but definitely not least,” Rucastle boomed after kissing the old woman’s cheeks, completely disregarding Chinese rules of etiquette, “Zhang Yan. Like a second grandmother was she was to me. Taught me everything I know today. Wouldn’t know how to properly thread a needle without her,” he smiled affectionately at her.

“Stop, you embarrass me with your flattery,” the matriarch smiled and nodded at Sherlock, Mary and Violet. Her voice was perfectly rounded and modulated, clearly indicating an English-boarding-school education. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Violet Smith replied by rote. “What an unexpected treat. This entire weekend has been like a fairytale.”

As they walked to the dining room, Zhang Yan asked Violet, “So you enjoy working for Jepthro then? No problems?”

“Who am I to complain?” Violet gave the old woman a guileless smile. “This entire experience so far has taken my breath away.”

During dinner, Mrs. Toller and Edward were absent. Rucastle had boomed that Violet deserved to have her nights off in order to truly enjoy everything the Copper Beaches had to offer. “And of course, you’ll want to spend time with your lucky fiancé to be sure,” he said, lifting his wine glass up toward Violet and Sherlock. “Don’t worry, the walls are quite thick, we won’t hear a thing, will we?” he leered at the “Happy Couple” and gave them both a lecherous wink.

Violet gave Sherlock a besotted look and even managed to blush. But her reddened cheeks were due to fury, not embarrassment. _Pig_ , she thought vehemently.

She devoutly hoped she could watch the police slap handcuffs on his wrists. _Screw that, I hope they hog-tie the asshole…_ her calm face hid her violent desires as Rucastle made rowdy, cheery talk with the He Family.

She picked at her food during dinner. The protein bars and dried fruit she had devoured in Sherlock’s room paled in comparison to the rich, seafood feast Toller and his assistant (the same one from last night, who had the Black Lotus tattoo on his wrist) brought out. She nibbled on what she could, watching Sherlock for clues. Whatever he helped himself to, she did as well. But she firmly stuck to water.

“Are you sure I can’t bring you anything?” Toller asked, looking mournful and watery-eyed as usual. “Tea, perhaps?”

_Dear God, no!_ she screamed internally. But she replied placidly enough, “I’m fine, thank you for asking. Water is perfect. I think I’m still dehydrated from last night.”

“Were you ill, Miss Smith?” Zhang Yan asked innocently enough.

“A touch of the flu, nothing serious,” Violet smiled.

“I meant to tell you earlier, both of you ladies, that your frocks are quite lovely.”

“Oh, thank you,” Mary gushed, knowing her role. “Mr. Rucastle surprised us with them. His own designs, aren’t they fabulous?”

Both Mary and Violet hated to admit it, but their dresses were sumptuous and gorgeous. Mary’s sleeveless ivory dress clung to her like a second skin but a thigh-high slit in the floor-length skirt allowed her to walk with ease. There was also a heavily beaded and sequined blood-red sash cinched around Mary’s waist. Rucastle had paired the dress with ruby-red high heels, a matching red clutch handbag and dangling faux-ruby earrings as well.

Violet’s gown was also floor-length but of course, was electric blue. Even though this dress had more fabric than the one Rucastle gave her to wear that night at the posh restaurant for her “birthday”, Violet felt more exposed than ever. While her dress had sleeves that went all the way down to her wrists and her skirts billowed more than Mary’s did, the majority of the material in Violet’s gown was sheer. So sheer it was nearly see-through on some parts of the gown and completely see-through on other parts of the gown. In a slightly darker shade of blue were embroidered and sequined designs of flowers and ivy leaves artfully and strategically stitched here and there on the dress.

“Hand-stitched those flowers are,” Rucastle crowed. “Personally, might I add,” He lifted up his brows, waiting for the appropriate response from Violet. 

“They are lovely,” Violet forced herself to say, “Thank you, I am honored.” 

She planned on binning the gown just as she had the last one.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had taken one look at the tan suit with the electric blue shirt and black-and-brown necktie waiting for him in the wardrobe and immediately pronounced “No.” He then put on one of his usual black suits and paired it with a black shirt.

Zhang Yan wore a little black dress that many younger women wouldn’t have been able to pull off, but she did flawlessly. Her silvery pearl choker was the same color as her hair. Her “grandsons” all wore handsome suits, no neckties and looked like they should be modeling for _Vogue_ instead of at some uncomfortable dinner party.

But as usual, Rucastle took the cake. His outfit was so outrageously over-the-top, both Mary and Violet wondered how in the hell he managed not to offend his guests. He wore a mustard yellow kimono with an enormous purple sash. Dragons, roosters and rabbits were embroidered all over the yellow robes. He had on eyeliner, blush and what appeared to be lip gloss. He had even managed to scrape his ginger hair back into some sort of knot at the back of his head. 

He looked like an overweight geisha girl, minus the parasol and white cosmetics.

Granted geisha girls were Japanese and not Chinese, but still it seemed dreadfully rude of Rucastle to use a bit of Asian culture simply as a fashion statement. It reminded Violet how much it irritated her to see teenagers wear rosaries as necklaces even though she hadn’t stepped willingly into a Catholic church in probably twenty years.

Sherlock, of course, had simply lifted an eyebrow at the gaudy robes, bored by the excess.

“But dear,” Zhang Yan was saying to Violet. She tore her eyes away from Rucastle’s hideous and insensitive outfit and focussed on the leader of this particular scion of the Black Lotus. “That watch does take away from the look a bit,” she pointed at Violet’s wrist, her voice apologetic. 

“Oh,” Violet covered her wrist, covered up the dainty gold wristwatch. “It was a birthday gift, sentimental value. I rarely take it off.”

She frowned. Sherlock had all but jammed the watch back on her wrist when she had gotten out of the pool. _Sherlock Holmes, what are you up to… and what have you done… now?_

“I must admit, the ring does take the attention away from the watch,” the old, elegant woman broke into Violet’s thoughts again. “That is quite a stone there. Well done, Mr. Holmes,” Zhang Yan said appreciatively as Toller and his “assistant” came out to serve the puddings.

“Thank you,” Sherlock rumbled, anxious for something, anything to happen… the game had been stagnating for too long. Time to end this stalemate.

Judging by the way Rucastle’s piggy eyes studied Violet and Mary, Sherlock deduced the fashion designer felt exactly the same.

After devouring his pudding with indecent haste, Rucastle stood up. “I say, I feel like having a bit of fun. Ladies? Are you in a gambling mood?”

“What do you have in mind?” Mary sounded breathlessly intrigued.

But Rucastle completely ignored her, “Sherlock? Fancy a flutter on a game?”

Sherlock lifted his brows haughtily. “Seeing how I usually win, why not?”

Rucastle laughed a loud, hearty, fake laugh.

Violet slipped her trembling hands underneath the table but was able to maintain a placid expression on her heavily-made-up face.  

“Gang,” Rucastle addressed the handsome young man seated next to Zhang Yan, “Is everything ready in the garage?”

“Yes,” Gang dabbed his lips with his serviette. “We took care of that before we entered the house, per your request.”  As he rose, Zhang Yan rattled off a string of Chinese, her face twisted angrily. Gang’s brows furrowed as he responded to his grandmother in their native tongue. Then he smiled apologetically to the dinner guests. “Pardon us. We forget ourselves sometimes. Grandmother is tired. My younger brother will bring her back to town.”  The youngest of the He gang started to protest but Gang cut across him in rapid-fire Chinese. The youngest looked mutinous, but he backed down.

Violet linked her fingers together underneath the table. _Something very bad is about to happen…_ her instincts whispered to her.

“Thank you, Jeff,” Zhang Yan gave her “grandson” a tight smile but still stood up elegantly as she continued: “So much for such a lovely time and for introducing us to your friends as well.  Xu, come along. It’s time to go,” she beckoned the young man.

Only Sherlock Holmes could have observed the slight crease of her brow. _She’s worried. She wants to get the youngest out of here as quickly as possible. Obviously. He is the only one who truly is her grandson. Again, painfully obvious. He has the same double-jointed left thumb as his grandmother. The others are not blood-related so she could give a toss what happens to her companions. But the grandson is precious, that is what she was arguing with Gang He about. Pity I only was able to learn only the basics of Chinese, but I caught the gist. Besides, her body language more than adequately communicates her emotions. She wants her grandchild out of the line of fire. Her fear has nothing to do with what Gang He is planning… no, it has everything to do with the guest of honor who has yet to arrive…_

_Moriarty…_

Like a spider, the name scurried across his brain, shunning the light as it scuttled back towards the shadows.

Early this morning, after reviewing the plan over and over, suddenly every single light in his mind-palace turned on: _Moriarty…oh… OH. It is the_ name _, not the man people fear._ _The man I knew as_ Jim Moriarty _is dead_. _But there is another, there has always been another._

_And he is coming, the one stepping into the dead man’s shoes, the New Moriarty…_

_Good. Let the games commence._

_But this time, I win._  

_He falls. I win._

As everyone else rose to their feet, Sherlock stealthily took out his mobile and quickly thumbed a text to John. Then he slipped the mobile back into his trousers pocket.

Languidly he rose from the table and stuck both his hands in his pockets. He dilly-dallied, staying two steps behind as he followed the ladies, Rucastle and what was left of the Black Lotus gang towards the impressive four-stall detached garage.

Meanwhile inside the dilapidated boathouse on the edge of the Helford, John’s mobile hummed.

John wrestled it out of his jeans pocket. “OK, Sherlock said they are on the move, towards the garage, away from the house,” John squinted at the small print on his mobile screen.

“Right,” Wiggins stood up and brushed dirt off the seat of his trousers. “Did he say where he thought the girl was then?”

“No,” John’s uninjured leg started jiggling nervously.

As brilliant as Sherlock’s plan was, so much of it depended on sheer dumb luck. Or at least it did from John’s point of view.

“Relax, doc,” Wiggins said as stretched his hand out to help John stand up. “Shezza’s got this.”

“Great,” John grumbled as Wiggins handed him a pair of crutches.

The cane, of course, had been Part of the Act. John didn’t like how he couldn’t hold onto his gun while using the crutches. He could move so much faster on the crutches than he could gimping along with his old cane.

The first step of Sherlock’s New Plan was John’s “escape” from The Copper Beaches. It was as simple as it was brilliant. John had never left the property. Wiggins had stashed the SUV less than a mile away from The Copper Beaches and returned to the property on foot in the dark, still hours before dawn. He had also hacked into Rucastle’s security system and disabled the cameras so he could slip inside the grotty old boathouse. There he had waited for Sherlock and John. In the still, grey hour before dawn, the detective arrived with the limping doctor.

“You know I hate you, right?” John had joked right before Sherlock left, “Getting to lounge around a posh house all day while I hang out with the mice and spiders.”

“Don’t waste the battery life on your mobiles or your tablet,” Sherlock had ignored John’s jibe as he dropped John’s rucksack at John’s feet.

“Then get your arse back inside the posh house so I can turn the cameras back on,” Wiggins had said laconically to Sherlock. “Then I’ll shut my devices off until sunset. But I got this,” and he held up an old pager, circa 1998. It was the size of a brick. “Battery life lasts longer than a mobile’s does. And it’s got a vibrate option as well.”

“That’s too much information,” John had quipped. “Sherlock, I can… I can manage, let go.”

Sherlock had released John and told Wiggins, “If I page you, that means run, understood?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Wiggins had clipped the pager to his jeans waistband. 

“At least we eliminated this location. Two ideas now for Evie Payne-Ellis’ location,” Sherlock had run his hand over the doorframe. “If I can accurately deduce where the girl is, I will text tonight but if not, check the basement first. Rucastle refused to show us that area when he gave us the tour yesterday. If she’s not there, then she must be in the garage for he did not show us that building either. I found it strange that he had a four-stall garage and yet all four vehicles of his were parked outside. And John,” he had scowled at his best friend.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be a hero. If your ankle plays up, call the police _and hide_.”

“Bu-”

“That’s not a request,” Sherlock had barked and stalked out.

Out of one of the tiny windows, Wiggins had watched Sherlock make his way up the slight hill back towards the house in the weak light of the coming dawn. Then he had drawled, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he acted like an overprotective boyfriend, he did”

“Shut up, Wiggins,” John had snapped as he slid down the dirty wall.

Wiggins had hidden his grin as he quickly turned the security cameras back on from his iPad. Then he had locked the boathouse door and crept next to John, who had pulled out his gun.

“Try to get some sleep,” John had groused at Wiggins.

All day, the most unlikely of partners had hunkered down in the boathouse. There had been very little air circulation in the neglected building. Both men had succumbed to the heat and divested themselves of their shirts, although John kept his vest on. He had poked Wiggins in the ribs at about noon and they had raided the rucksack Sherlock had brought down with them. Not only had Sherlock packed plenty of food and water, but he had included fresh wraps for John’s ankle, antibiotic cream, cotton wool and fresh Elastoplasts for John’s dog-bite wounds, ibuprofen, hand sanitizer, a picklock set, two torches and two clean t-shirts as well. Of course they were the right size for both men.

Neither man put the clean shirts on until much later, after the August heat had burned away the afternoon and twilight descended.

John had dozed fitfully throughout the afternoon. It had been Wiggins who gently shook him awake so they could drink more water and gobble down a meager supper. They had turned on their mobiles. There had been no texts from Sherlock. Neither one of them had been able to decide if they were relieved or concerned, because “No news’ good news, right?” Wiggins had given John a toothy nervous smile.

Then Wiggins had rebound John’s sprained ankle, then slathered his hands with the sanitizer gel before changing the bandages covering the dog bites. “Bloody hell, man,” Wiggins had breathed when he removed the old bandage on John’s arm.

“Ironically it’s the twisted ankle that fucking hurts more than the bites,” John had tried to grin, but ended up grimacing all through Wiggins’ ministrations.

Only after those chores had been completed did John’s mobile, after a long day of silence, finally vibrate. Sherlock had broken his silence to inform him of the Black Lotus’ arrival. John, a military man, very used to the strange Army concept of “Hurry Up and Wait”, had clicked the safety of his gun off and then closed his eyes. To pass the time, he mentally recited the proper names of all the bones in the human body. He had gotten to _triquetum_ when his mobile hummed a second time, notifying him of the text stating Rucastle was taking them all to the garage.

“That means the basement,” Wiggins tried to sound nonchalant. “That’s where the girl’s gotta be at, yeah?”

“Yeah,” John pulled his cardigan on with a wince then tucked the crutches underneath his armpits. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

 “Wha’?”

“Never mind,” John sighed.

“No, I mean, I ain’t stupid. I know that’s from _Macbeth_ ,” Wiggins put on the rucksack Sherlock had brought down from the house. “But I thought it was “Lay on, MacDuff”, not-”

“Just unlock the ruddy door,” John spluttered.

Wiggins opened the door a crack.

“Can you see them?” John whispered. “Can you see anyone?”

“No, but the house is dark. “C’mon,” Wiggins whispered. “Need help getting up the hill?”

“No, there’s a footpath that leads up to the deck and the pool. That’s how Sherlock and I got down here this morning. I’ll be fine,” John grumbled. Then he suddenly said “Bill, _Bill_?”

“Wha’?”

“Have you… have you ever used a gun before?”

“N-n-nooo…”

Awkwardly, John pulled his weapon from out the waistband of his jeans. “Here. Safety’s off. All you have to do is pull the trigger. Take it.” But when Wiggins hesitated, John hissed, “For fuck’s sake, _take it_. If we get ambushed, I’m not going to have time to take it out and I can’t carry it with these ruddy crutch-”

“OK, OK,” Wiggins gingerly took the Army Browning from John. “Fuck. I mean, Jesus, I’ve never touched a gun before.”

“Well, hopefully it will be the last night, now let’s go,” John snapped again, his stomach knotting. He huffed and puffed as he swung the crutches in motion, following Wiggins at a fast clip.  

He wished he could have gone with Sherlock, Mary and Violet instead.

Meanwhile, as Sherlock followed everyone into the garage, he heartily wished John would have consented to just go to town and wait for them. But Sherlock knew John would never have  agreed to that course of action. It wouldn’t have been like pasturing an old war horse. It would have been like pasturing the old war horse only to have the stubborn equine jump the fence to join the fray.

He felt a small starburst of gratitude that not only was the house large enough to block the view of the boathouse from the garage, but there were also plenty of trees as well. If Sherlock couldn’t see John and Wiggins making their way up the trail to the house, then neither could anyone else… at least from the garage…

But if someone was coming up from the river… taking a moonlit boat ride…

_If Wiggins allows anything to happen to John, I’ll kill him with my bare hands_ , Sherlock vowed, then added, _Assuming Mary doesn’t beat me to it._

But the aroma of blood and dog hair assaulted Sherlock’s nostrils, pushing John from his mind.

He stood in-between Mary and Violet, waiting for Gang He to punch in the code to one of the garage doors. Both women maintained their composure admirably well. Sherlock felt especially proud of Mary, she wasn’t allowing her love for John to interfere with the plan. Most unlike how she completely let her love for her daughter cloud her judgment when she started looking for the child… but that was a dilemma that would need to be sorted out later.

Violet had remained practical and brave as such was her nature. She even got her hands under control when they had started trembling at the dinner table. But she had deduced something, spotted something that had triggered the brief anxiety attack during dessert. Observed something that had her guard up higher than ever before…

_She believes something Not Very Good is about to happen. I cannot deduce what she had observed, but as she is usually correct about these matters… and the scent of blood and dog is undeniable…_

_… and she is going to start wondering where Gladstone is…_

Gang He finally entered the correct code. The garage door rattled as it rolled up.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as he saw a makeshift ring made out of bales of hay. He saw rows of plastic dog crates. Some of the crates were shaking back and forth. Soft whines came from the other crates.

He then saw the plastic baby pools off to the side.

Violet, meanwhile, had frozen to the spot. “What is this?” she struggled for a conversational tone as Rucastle strode past her.

Of course what she really meant was “Where’s my dog?”

“This? Oh, this is _fun_ , my dear Miss Smith, I promise you,” Rucastle patted her on the cheek and then entered the garage, his kimono robes flapping behind him.

Gang He turned to Sherlock, Mary and Violet. “Ladies first,” he didn’t bother to hide the mockery from his voice. He even bowed slightly.

“What _is_ this?” Mary didn’t bother to sound conversational.

Gang He held out his hand. “Come along and I’ll show you, Mrs. Watson.”

Mary walked right past him, ignoring his proffered hand. Violet slipped her hand into the crook of  Sherlock’s elbow and they too sailed right past the gangster.

The garage door squealed shut. Mary sidled close next to Sherlock as Violet continued to grip his coat sleeve. The three of them watched as one of Gang He’s henchmen opened a crate door and hauled a very sorry looking mutt out by the scruff of his neck. The poor creature looked to be on its last legs; the ears and tail were completely mutilated and there were old and fresh scars crisscrossing all over its body.

The poor dog shivered and whined as the henchmen picked him up and tossed him in the improvised arena. Sherlock leaned forward and saw a metal ring in the pavement of the garage. The henchmen clipped one end of a chain to the ring and the other to the dog’s collar.

“Jeff, if this is what I think it is, this is most uncivilized,” Sherlock murmured.

Another crate opened up. Two more of Gang He’s men started to handle this dog, only this particular canine was a pit bull. Muzzled and frenzied, the dog thrashed in the two men carried him towards the hay bale arena.

“Where is my dog?” Violet asked in a glacial voice. 

“No wonder your grandmother left,” Mary sneered as she watched in horror, the two men placed the pit bull in the ring, then quickly removed the muzzle before scrambling out of the arena. But the pit bull didn’t attack the poor, chained bait dog. He sniffed at him, investigating, not attacking. But the chained dog quivered and cowered anyway. “She is probably ashamed of you, engaging this in this disgusting…” she trailed off, shaking her head. 

“Looks like you got a dud here,” one of gangsters crowed as the pit bull merely sat on his haunches instead of attacking the bait dog.

“Get the cattle prod,” another gangster lazily suggested.

“This is barbaric,” Mary exploded. “What are you trying to prove here?”

“That,” Rucastle pulled a pretty little silver pistol out of his kimono. “If you have money, you can do whatever you please. And, thanks to my friends, my many powerful friends, well, I have _plenty_ of money. So I always do what I want and I always get what I want.”

He strode over to the arena and handed the pistol to Gang He. “If it’s not working out, dispose of it. I can’t make any money off it if it won’t do its job.” He gave the pit bull a contemptuous look then spun around and smiled at Violet. “My dear Violet, do not despair. Most people interested in this sport are not interested in Alsatians. Pit bulls are the preferred breeds. You see, this,” he spread his arms out wide, “Is how you know that I trust you. I don’t show ordinary people my side businesses. Oh, I’m not into,” he flapped his fat hand towards the arena and the crates, “that. But I do rent the buildings out to the people who feel enthusiastic about this sport.”

“This is not a sport,” Mary spat.

Sherlock thought perhaps Mary was being a bit melodramatic, but a quick flick of her blue eyes at him told him she was merely playing the role of the Outraged Doctor’s Wife.

_Liar, liar, liar…_

“Where is my dog?” Violet demanded again.

Rucastle tut-tutted her. “If you are so concerned, I’ll show you.” He crooked out his elbow. “Assuming Sherlock doesn’t object?”

Sherlock had anticipated the three of them being separated. “None whatsoever,” he purred.

_Good luck with her,_ he thought with giddy delight. _I watched her kill two men. The first one, Sebastian Moran, was to save my life, but the second, Jack Woodley? Ahhh, that was in cold blood. Pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Rucastle…._

_… now I wait for the new Moriarty to show himself._

_And for that meeting who better at my side than one of the best assassins in the world?_

Mary’s role was the simplest.

“Kill Moriarty,” he had told her this morning after delivering John to the boathouse and before they went to play mind games with Toller. “Can you do that for me?”

She had nodded, her cornflower eyes round and solemn.

And now Violet was off to take care of that giant oaf Rucastle and to secure the final piece of evidence connecting the Earl of Winchester to Lady Elise’s death while Wiggins and John rescued Evie Payne-Ellis.

Sherlock smirked. Everything was going exactly to his plan. 

Naturally, that’s when everything started going straight to hell.

Because there was someone taking a moonlit boat ride.

And he was docking at the boathouse.

And Rucastle was taking Violet straight to him.

“You never did finish what you were saying up in the garage,” Violet said lightly as they made their way down to the boathouse. Her heart rate immediately accelerated when she realized where Rucastle was taking her. She hoped to hell John and Wiggins had gotten out of there.

John and Wiggins actually had just reached the deck when they spied the sleek speedboat careening down the river, slowing as it reached the docks by the boathouse.

“What the hell?” John squinted his eyes, trying to see, but it was too dark. All he could make out were silhouettes in the security lights. “Who’s that now?”

“Dunno, c’mon, doc,” Wiggins started to say, but then John gasped when he heard Violet and Rucastle’s voices, then saw their outlines as Rucastle lead Violet into the boathouse. John swung around on his crutches, ignoring the ache in his upper arm where the bull mastiff had bitten him. But Wiggins grabbed him by the shoulders just as John was about to hobble down the hill. “Don’t man,” Wiggins put the gun down on one of the patio tables. He blocked John by grabbing him by the shoulders. “We’ve all got our jobs. Miss Smith seems like she can take care of herself. That girl, that Evie-girl? She’s who needs us. She’s barely a grown-up and she’s in the shit and she needs us. I know you’re worried about your mate’s bird, but we gotta go, doc. Before that tub of guts sees us, OK?” Panicked, Wiggins looked over his shoulder as Violet and Rucastle seemed to be in some sort of argument. “Doc, d’you hear me? Miss Smith’s got this, Shezza said she’s carrying, so _let’s go_.”

“Yeah, OK,” John reluctantly agreed but he pursed his lips tightly together. After last night, he wasn’t so sure Violet _could_ take care of herself. “Just… don’t forget the gun.” 

So he sent a silent prayer up to whatever deity that might be listening tonight as he followed Wiggins into the house. On top of everything else, his upper arm seemed to be competing with his calf and ankle in the Pain Game. 

“Which way?” Wiggins breathed as they stood in the lounge, gun back in his hand, pointed at the fine hardwood floor.

John tilted his head to the right. Wiggins nodded and led the way, John hopping along right after him. They had made it to the hallway and were about to turn towards the door that led to the basement when the upstairs lights suddenly turned on.

“Oh fuck me,” Wiggins whimpered.

But John didn’t lose his head. “Here,” he pointed to an open door that led to the guest lavatory. John hopped backwards and Wiggins followed as menacing creaks signified someone was coming down the stairs.

John’s backside caught the sharp edge of the square sink. He bit back a swear word and clumsily sat down on the toilet as Wiggins shut the door as quietly as possible.

Just then a whiny, childish voice bawled out, “But I don’t want to go to bed! I want to go with Daddy. I want to go to Daddy _right now._ ”

Wiggins locked it just in the nick of time. The click seemed as loud as cannon but thankfully Edward’s incessant whining covered the sound up.

Crammed in the tiny room, John swore he could smell Mrs. Toller’s disgusting perfume as they walked past. That didn’t help with the sick feeling swirling in his stomach. His ankle and calf felt like they had been doused with gasoline and set on fire. His upper arm burned like fury as well.

“Daddy is working, Master Edward. Once his job is done, you two are going to Paris the rest of the summer, won’t that be nice?”

“I want to go to Paris _now_.”

John felt something thick and viscous sliding down his bicep like an oily teardrop. _Shit. I tore the sutures_. He cursed himself. At least he wasn’t bleeding profusely, just enough to be irritating.

 “Well, you can’t,” Mrs. Toller snapped but then she paused. “You idiot, what on earth are you doing? You were supposed to have her ready ages ago!”

John held his breath. Wiggins gripped the edge of the sink with one hand and pointed the gun at the door with the other. The gun trembled slightly.

Both men could just make out the muffled sounds of a woman trying to scream but couldn’t because something was obviously in her mouth.

“I had a bit of trouble,” Toller wheezed, right outside the lavatory door. “She bit me, the old bitch.” Then there was a muffled cry of pain then Toller snarled “Shut up and be still, Granny.”

John and Wiggins stared at each other wide-eyed and afraid. _Old bitch? Granny?_

Evie was a young woman. 

Who _else_ was here?

“Bit of trouble? You mean you had a bit too much to drink, you pathetic alcoholic,” Mrs. Toller shouted at him. “How did I ever have the misfortune of being saddled with a lush like you? No matter. Hurry up and get her by the pool. Mr. Rucastle texted me to tell me he’s brought that redheaded bitch down to the boathouse. The Chinese will take care of the good doctor’s wife. Not to mention we still have to figure out where in the blazes Dr. Watson disappeared to, I found out he most certainly did not return to London. And tonight, you get the honor of bringing the Great Consulting Detective down, though God only knows why you deserve that privilege.”

“Can I burn him?” there was no denying the savage delight in Toller’s voice.

John clutched the crutches. He didn’t dare text, didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare move.

“Burn him, burn his heart out, I don’t give a fig, _just don’t kill him_.” Mrs. Toller’s patience definitely had reached its limit, “Wants him alive, the Boss does. Wants him to _suffer_ so don’t get drunk and carried away like you did the Toni Pandy girl. Christ what a mess that was.”

Then a tiny, boyish voice froze John’s heart.

“Can I help?” Edward asked.

Wiggins’ face shone with perspiration but he didn’t move a muscle. Even the gun steadied in his hand. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and John didn’t blame him. His own mouth had gone quite dry as well.

And his arm and leg fucking hurt. He quietly and carefully leaned one of the crutches against the wall so he could wipe the blood off his arm. But he didn’t dare wipe his bloody hand on his jeans, afraid that would make too much noise.

“Of course you can help, you’re my very best helper, aren’t you?” Toller crooned at the boy.

“You’re wasting time,” Mrs. Toller snapped at Toller. “Get that old biddy to the pool then go get Holmes. We need to be at the air field to catch our flight by eleven o’clock.”

“OK, OK,” Toller grumbled as his voice drifted off.

“Mrs. Toller?”

“What?”

“Can I watch a DVD until Daddy is done with his work?”

“Of course you can, poppet.”

“Can I watch down here, in the lounge, instead of my room?”

“Errr, yes, of course. Until Toller returns with Sherlock. Then you need to go back to your room.”

“Mrs. Toller?”

“What?” there was more than a bite of impatience in her voice now.

“I have to pee.”

**

11 August 2015  
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ residence  
Tuesday evening   
8:45 PM

He had stopped at a café to pick up a sandwich, a bag of crisps and another coffee then made his way back to the pretty red brick house in one of London’s middle class suburbs.

He had also needed to change. Now he wore a crisp, formal military uniform. After he returned to park kitty-corner from the pretty red brick house, he took off his gloves and made sure to drape a napkin over his chest so not to get crumbs all over his uniform.

He had polished off the sandwich and chips and now sipped coffee, waiting for the text from The Powers That Be.

His gun was now hidden underneath his hat.

He frowned, pondering his instructions. On the surface, it was easy enough. The uniform would grant him access inside. All he had to do was solemnly recite his lines: “I apologize for the late hour, but I need to speak to you about your son,” and they would panic and let him in.

Of course they would panic. They were parents. They were civilians. They would trust the uniform. They would open the door and usher him inside.

But that’s when the instructions got muddled. He wasn’t supposed to do both parents.

Just the mum.

His frown deepened. He didn’t like leaving behind witnesses.

Still, the money was too good, he couldn’t turn it down.

He studied the neighborhood. Had been casing it for about a week now.

Security seems rather lax, seeing how the parents of Mycroft Holmes, the Man Behind the Curtain, lived here.

Maybe Mycroft honestly believed he hid in plain sight. That everyone believed the codswallop that he was merely a minor government bureaucrat. No one important at all.

If it wasn’t for the target, this would be a boring hit, to be honest. 

He decided after this hit, he’d lay low for a few years. South America maybe.

Brazil was supposed to be lovely.

**

11 August 2015  
The Lestrades’ residence  
Tuesday evening   
8:50 PM

“Greg, really, you know you’re overreacting, right?”

“I simply wish to give my beautiful, clever wife a foot massage and that’s overreacting?” Lestrade shook his head mock-ruefully.

“You forgot sexy,” Molly informed him. “Especially in yoga bottoms and an enormous t-shirt.”

“Ah, of course, forgive me. How on earth could I have forgotten sexy,” Lestrade patted his lap. “Especially in those clingy yoga bottoms, my t-shirt and your hair up in a pony-tail.” 

“I could get used to this,” Molly slowly swung her legs up and placed her feet into Lestrade’s lap. “You picking up Chinese, doing the wash-up afterwards…”

“Not a difficult chore when all we have to do is pitch the cardboard containers into the bin,” Lestrade quipped as he gently kneaded his wife’s feet.

Molly’s face relaxed as she smiled. “And a foot-massage. Heaven.”

“Don’t forget about binge-watching _Glee_.”

“Greg, you don’t have to watch _Glee_ with me.”

“Are you kidding? Love that program,” and then without further ado, he burst out singing “Don’t stop, believin’!” in his atrocious singing voice.

“OK, you are not allowed to sing any lullabies to Henry,” Molly ran her hands over her baby bump. “Give him nightmares you will.”

Lestrade grinned. “OK, then I’ll read to him. _Goodnight Moon_. _Paddington Bear_. _Winnie-the-Pooh_. Better?”

“Much better,” Molly wiggled her toes contently. “Greg, really. There’s nothing to worry about. My OB/GYN said to just be mindful of my blood pressure. It was a bit higher than what they care for it to be, but nothing to be alarmed about right now.”

“Then I’m going to do everything I can to make sure your blood pressure stays nice and low,” Lestrade reached over to pat Molly on the tummy. “You’ve got two and a half months to go, bud. We need you to stay put until October. Oh, he’s kicking,” Lestrade’s face lit up. 

“That’s because he knows you’re his dad,” Molly felt a lump forming in her throat and her eyes watering up.

_Henry… I do like it. It’s not silly or ordinary… Hello, Henry, I’m your f-_

“Molly?” Lestrade saw how glassy-eyed his wife became and reached over for her hand, still on top of her belly. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter? What’s troubling you?”

But Molly shook her head. All night she had felt safe and pampered and warm and… _loved_.

She was not going to ruin tonight by wasting any thoughts on Sherlock Holmes. Not tonight.

“I’m just really happy, Greg,” she told him.

Lestrade gave her a look of pure adoration. “I’m really happy too. Because of you. And the little guy here,” he placed his hand back on Molly’s belly. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“Are you trying to make me cry?”

“Maybe,” Lestrade teased her. “But you’re going to be bawling anyway once we start watching Glee. There’s always one song per episode that turns you into a bloody waterfall.”

“Oh stop, you,” Molly swung her feet back down. “If we’re going to watch _Glee_ properly, we need popcorn.”

“I can make it,” Lestrade said immediately.

But Molly was already on her feet, stretching her back. “I’d prefer we not burn the flat down before we sell it. Just get the DVD ready.”

“OK,” Greg watched Molly waddle towards the kitchen.

She paused at the kitchen door, a mischievous grin on her face. “Forgot to tell you that you look really hot in your track suit too.”

He laughed “Knew I should have worn this to the wedding instead,” he informed her as he stood up. She rolled her eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Soon he heard her rattling around the cupboards and the refrigerator. He heard he call “Oh that reminds me, the photographer called me. He said he’s got the proofs ready. He’s going to email me the password to his website so we can look at the album online and pick out which ones we want prints off.”

“OK, sounds good,” Lestrade said absently as he crouched down in front of bookshelf, trying to remember which season they had left off. He had a feeling if his co-workers ever realized how much he actually enjoyed _Glee_ , they’d never stop taking the piss out of him.

Although, he could have sworn he heard Sherlock hum a few bars of _Don’t Stop Believin’_ under his breath at the last few crime scenes.

Lestrade shook his head and told himself to stop being so ridiculous. Sherlock barely kept up on pop culture, unless it was for a case. Then he would give himself a crash course in whatever television show, film or music he needed to learn for that particular case.

_Not tonight_ , Lestrade told himself as he took Season Three off the shelf. _Tonight is not about Sherlock. Tonight is about me and Molly._  

As he took the disc out of its case and popped it in his DVD player, he briefly entertained the fantasy of Sherlock moving to New York. But soon the smells of oil and butter and the sound of corn popping filled the flat.

Joining the sound of the popcorn was his mobile vibrating. He snatched it up and read Alex’s text:

Just got here  
Flight delayed  
En route to R’s now – AMcD

“OK,” Lestrade felt another weight lifting off his shoulders. One less thing to worry about. Get that nutter Rucastle and his cronies off the streets. As long as the lawyers don’t fuck this up and Rucastle should spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Lestrade returned to his sofa and made himself comfortable.

Life was good indeed.

Outside his flat, however, the man in the passenger seat of in the boring little beige sedan that had followed Lestrade home reached behind him, groping for something in the backseat. He pulled out a gym bag. “OK, I’m going in,” he told the driver.

“Remember,” the driver said. “Don’t attack until you get the text from the boss. This all has to be coordinated. Everything goes down at once.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t get your garters in a tangle, ain’t my first time, you knob,” the passenger grumbled, a great beefy man with no neck. He peered into the bag, making sure the crowbar was in there.

“And remember, don’t kill the copper, just the wife.”

“D’you wanna do this? Should I drive?” he snapped at the getaway driver.

“You drive like an old woman,” the driver sighed. “A’right, get outta here.” 

The passenger grunted, let himself out of the car and slammed the door harder than necessary.

The driver snorted in disgust. “Prick,” he muttered.

**  
11 August 2015  
The Copper Beaches  
Tuesday evening   
8:51 PM

“You never did finish what you were saying up in the garage,” Violet Smith said lightly as she followed Rucastle down to the boathouse. Her heart rate immediately accelerated when she realized where Rucastle was taking her.

She hoped to hell John and Wiggins had gotten out of there.

She had been worried she would be unable to hide her Glock 42 under the sheer skirts, but the layers and layers of the gauzy material actually concealed the holster and weapon quite well.

She wasn’t worried about Sherlock and Mary. _Assuming Mary doesn’t shoot him in the fucking chest again,_ Violet fumed. _Or worse, in the back_.

She did worry about John, gimping around on crutches. Both she and Mary had tried to dissuade John from staying. John, of course, acted like the stereotypical stubborn mule.

“If Evie’s hurt, she’ll need me,” he had pointed out.

“I’m a nurse, I can help her,” Mary had reminded him but John shook his head.

“I have a feeling Sherlock has another use for you,” he had muttered and Mary had shut up.

Violet hoped Wiggins would take care of John, cover his back while they went looking for Evie.

She also hoped her dog was OK. _Gladstone, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you behind…_

“Eh?” Rucastle turned his head but didn’t stop walking.

“I said you never finished what you were saying in the garage. You never said what you wanted,” Violet said innocently, adjusting her fake eyeglasses.

“Oh,” Rucastle stopped. Then he turned around, a lecherous smile crossed his face. “Well, I wanted you, my dear.”

Violet immediately shifted her feet into a defensive stance. High-heels or no high-heels, she prepared herself to fight him. _He might be bigger than me, but a hit to the balls, then to the carotid artery will drop him just the same_ , she thought. She clutched the material of her skirts, preparing to hike them up when she needed to kick him. 

“I’m flattered but you’re married,” Violet said kindly, as if she was letting him down as gently as possible. “And your wife is ill. She needs you. At any rate, I’m taken.”  

“Yes, the Great Detective took you as his own and I wanted to take you as my own. A life with me would be far better than a life with him. I can offer you beauty, luxury and security. Not to mention,” he reached for Violet’s hair. Violet instinctively backed away from his reaching hand. Rucastle leered at her, “A stylist, someone who knows how to give a decent cut and color. All Sherlock can give you is disappointment when he gets bored and moves on to his new companion. Last year’s model was John Watson, this year it’s you and who knows who will take your place. I wanted to spare you all of that. But alas, the price of having powerful friends is sacrificing a little want in order to acquire a bigger want. And one of my very best friends wants you…” A cruel, tight smile stretched his livery lips, “Agent Hunter.”

Violet felt all the blood drain from her face.

Still she persevered. In a confused voice, she said with a shake of her head “I don’t understand?”

“Oh, come off it, the game is over. You’re a disgraced American federal agent. You’ve been hiding behind the Great Detective’s coat all these months.”

“No, you’re… this is ridiculous,” Violet huffed with as much dignified British outrage as she could possibly muster. “You’ve been  reading far too many spy novels, Mr. Rucastle. Your accusations are completely without merit. I won’t stand to be insulted like that, _an American_ ,” she scoffed. “Honestly. How rude. I should resign from my post just for that.”

She turned to flounce off, planning to run the minute she could, when Rucastle called out, “If you run, the girl dies.”

Violet whirled around, her skirts swishing around her. “What girl? What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly who I am talking about,” he reached into one of the sleeves of his kimono and pulled out a mobile. He held it up so Violet could clearly see it in his meaty paw. “One text and Toller finishes her.”

“You’re _mad_. I’m no secret agent. I’m just a tutor, for God’s sake.”

“Your choice, run and let the girl die.”

“No one has to die, Jepthro, please,” Violet Smith pleaded while Violet Hunter thought _You are going to die, motherfucker_.

“Then come with me and meet my true benefactor. He did assure me that he doesn’t want you dead. In fact, he said you have a certain skill set he was interested in,” Rucastle paused dramatically. “He said if you cooperate he’ll send you back to America in one piece. But if you don’t do as you’re told and you’ll go back to America in several pieces.”

Violet swayed on her feet. _Oh God… Oh God, oh God, oh God…_

_Do as you’re told and I’ll send you home. I’ll send you back to America in one piece… you don’t do as you’re told…_ _and you’ll go back to America in several pieces_.

Violet could _hear_ his silvery Irish lilt. She could _feel_ his hands on her again… his dirty filthy hands on her and in her again.

His face, his lunar pale face, his Cheshire cat’s grin and his mad, mad eyes swam in front of her. She wanted to throw up.

Instead she balled her hands into fists, her nails cutting into her palms.

 “I want to see her,” Violet demanded, her voice stronger than she felt, “The girl. I want to see her and I want to see you release her.”

“Of course,” Rucastle demurred. “But first,” he swept his arm towards the boathouse.

_It’s a trap_ , she belatedly realized as Rucastle grabbed her arm as she passed him. _We’ve been outmaneuvered. Sherlock and Mary are hopelessly outnumbered in the garage. We’re miles from nowhere. Not even My-fucking-croft can get his spooks out here in time…_

_Sherlock Holmes, if we live through this, I’m going to kill you…_

The only ace up their sleeves was an injured Army doctor and a recovering drug addict.

_We’re fucked_ , Violet thought dully as Rucastle half-dragged, half-pulled her to the boathouse. _But I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight. Not like last time, not like when that psycho killed Steven._ Steven Morgan had been her old FBI partner and friend. Jim Moriarty had ripped his throat open right in front of her and she had been powerless to stop him. Just like she had been powerless to stop The Fall from happening when she figured out what Jim had planned for Sherlock.

_Not this time_ , she thought, feeling the rage pushing the fear to the side. _Not powerless, not this time. If I go down, you’re coming down with me_ , Jimmy.

“You’re hurting me,” Violet Smith snapped angrily at Rucastle as his fat fingers dug into the flesh of her arm.

He ignored her and pushed open the boathouse door dramatically.

He found the light switch and flipped it on.

When Violet saw who stood there, waiting for them, her legs gave way completely. Only Rucastle’s cruel grip on her upper arm kept her upright.

It was not Jim Moriarty who stood in the boat house waiting for her.

It was so so much worse than Jim Moriarty.

Because he recognized her and she recognized him.

Standing, leaning on John’s white cane, dressed to the nines in a grey suit and crisp white dress shirt, perfectly shined shoes and properly knotted tie, was Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper, the Earl of Winchester.

“Hello, Agent Hunter,” he purred.


	27. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock Holmes does not belong to you. He belongs to the world...”
> 
> \---> Trigger Warning for violence and implied sex abuse. 

Chapter Twenty-Seven:  Now

Violet’s mouth dropped open but no sound came out. Her legs had completely turned to jelly.

Then she felt Rucastle’s fingers touching her hair, pulling on a curl that had fallen out of her up-do and she jerked herself out of his grip, her revulsion giving her strength.

“Are you sure,” Rucastle whined, looking like a little boy whose teddy bear was snatched away. “Are you sure I can’t keep her, she’s such a magnificent specimen. All she really needs is to have that disgusting red hair cut and colored. My bitch-of-a-daughter Alice had chestnut hair, you see,” he explained to Violet. “I _hate_ chestnut hair.” 

“No offense, but I really don’t care,” Violet Smith circled away from the men, looking for an escape route.

The Earl sighed theatrically. “Going to persist with the charade? There’s really no point, you know. You gave yourself away by nearly collapsing at the door.”

“Oh, don’t most women have that reaction when they see you?” Violet Smith said sweetly.

The mottled, pink side of the Earl’s face twitched. Then the scarred half of his lips quirked up in a smile, “I think we all know women aren’t my preference.”

“Oh yes,” Violet immediately started flipping through her cerebral files, scrambling, searching for her mental notes about the Earl’s weaknesses and pressure points. She didn’t have a mind-palace like Sherlock’s. Instead of a building with endless rooms, hallways and spiraling staircases, her memory was more like one giant room with rows and rows of neatly organized filing cabinets. “Mr. Rucastle, I would advise you not to leave Edward alone with your good friend, Heathcliff for any extended period of time. Although, Edward’s a bit young, you like them a bit older, don’t you? You prefer seven-year-olds, don’t you?”

“What are you saying?” Rucastle exploded. “I’ve left my son alone with him loads of times and he’s just fine. Of all the cheap insults you can dream up, this is the best you can do?”

“I don’t deal with dreams, only facts, Mr. Rucastle. Considering that the Earl just came from Thailand, you do the mathematics,” Violet said coolly then lifted her hand, showing Rucastle the fading bite marks from Edward. “And believe me when I say that your son is _not_ fine.”

Rucastle scowled at her. “Mrs. Toller was right. All you do is rock the boat. I’ve had it with your insubordination. You’re not what I’m looking for anyway. You’re too much like the goddess Athena, all fight, no love in your heart at all. All you need is an owl on your shoulder and a sword in your hand.”

“Aw, you think I’m a goddess, I’m flattered,” Violet batted her eyes at the fashion designer.

“I think you’re a cold fish,” he snarled, wounded to the core that Miss Smith… or whoever she really was… was attacking him instead of flattering him. “I can’t believe I even considered… that I thought I could…” he glowered at the Earl. “She’s all yours.”

“Excellent,” the Earl purred. “Is everything else ready?”

“Yes,” Rucastle said tersely.

“Then what are you waiting for?” the Earl asked in an urbane voice that belied his ugly, malformed face. “Tell Toller it’s time to begin. Once Toller does his part, all the other pieces of this game will fall into place. You,” the Earl eyed Rucastle from the hem of his kimono to the top of his ridiculous hair-style. “Change out of those silly robes at once. Collect your son and your prize and go to Penzance as soon as you can slip away undetected, oh don’t worry,” the Earl sighed as Rucastle gave him a doubtful look. “The Great Detective will be quite occupied. He won’t realize you’ve gone until it’s far too late. One of my private jets is waiting for you at the airport. I’ll meet you and your boy in Paris. Tell Eddie Uncle Cliff says ‘hello’.”

The nausea returned to Violet. “You sick fuck,” she whispered in her true accent.

“There she is,” the Earl smiled. “Jeff, lock the door behind you.”

“With pleasure,” Rucastle grinned, moving faster than a man of his size should be able to. He slammed the door shut and locked it. He grunted in relief. One problem solved.

He thumbed a text to Toller. _And that would be two problems solved_ , Rucastle thought. He hustled up the footpath towards the great house, where his servants, their hostage and his son inadvertently corralled John Watson and Bill Wiggins in a tiny half-bathroom.

While Rucastle puffed up the hill, Mrs. Toller was busy screeching at Toller: “You idiot, what on earth are you doing? You were supposed to have her ready ages ago!”

“I had a bit of trouble. She bit me, the old bitch.” He gave his blind-folded and gagged prisoner a sharp shake then snarled, “Shut up and be still, Granny.”

“Bit of trouble? You mean you had a bit too much to drink, you pathetic alcoholic. How did I ever have the misfortune of being saddled with a lush like you? No matter. Hurry up and get her by the pool. Mr. Rucastle texted me to tell me he’s brought that redheaded bitch down to the boathouse. The Chinese will take care of the good doctor’s wife. Not to mention we still have to figure out where in the blazes Dr. Watson disappeared to; I found out he most certainly did not return to London. And tonight, you get the honor of bringing the Great Consulting Detective down, though God only knows why you deserve that privilege.”

“Can I burn him?” there was no denying the savage delight in Toller’s voice.

Mrs. Toller rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Burn him, burn his heart out, I don’t give a fig, _just don’t kill him_.” Mrs. Toller’s patience definitely had reached its limit, “Wants him alive, the Boss does. Wants him to _suffer_ so don’t get drunk and carried away like you did  with the Toni Pandy girl. Christ what a mess that was.”

“Can I help?” Edward asked, tugging Mrs. Toller’s skirt.

“Of course you can help, you’re my very best helper, aren’t you?” Toller crooned at the boy. Edward lit up like a Christmas tree.

“You’re wasting time,” Mrs. Toller snapped at Toller. “Get that old biddy to the pool then go get Holmes. We need to be in Penzance to catch our flight by eleven o’clock.”

“OK, OK,” Toller grumbled as he dragged his prisoner out the hallway. Her heels clattered on the hard wood floors as he took her away.

“Mrs. Toller?”

“What?”

“Can I watch a DVD until Daddy is done with his work?”

“Of course you can, poppet.” She smoothed down his ginger hair.

“Can I watch down here, in the lounge, instead of my room?”

“Errr, yes, of course. Until Toller returns with Sherlock. Then you need to go back to your room,” she straightened up, distracted now, checking her wristwatch.

“Mrs. Toller?” Edward tugged her skirt again.

“What?” now there was more than a bite of impatience in her voice.

“I have to pee.”

“For heaven’s sake, Master Edward, you are a big boy now, you don’t need me to hold your hand to go to the loo,” Mrs. Toller put her hand on the doorknob to the half-bathroom where John and Wiggins hid.

Both men were completely soaked with sweat now. John could feel the blood seeping through the soft material of his cardigan. John couldn’t remember the last time he felt this apprehensive. Not afraid, exactly. Definitely not happy though.

But he could tell Wiggins was scared shitless. _Hold it together Billy_ , John wished Wiggins could read his mind. He didn’t like how the gun started shaking in Wiggins’ hand again. He clamped his hand down on his bleeding bicep again, applied pressure. _Damn. Damn damn damn…_ Too late, he realized he really should not have stayed to help. That in truth, he really was just a hindrance.

He heard his best friend’s lazy voice drawling into his ear _I told you so…_

_Bugger off, Sherlock_ John snapped at his best friend in his head. Then both he and Wiggins snapped to attention when they heard shouting. Angry shouting. Rucastle. Yelling his head off at Mrs. Toller because she was supposed to make sure that Toller had gotten that old cow outside by the pool, trussed up and ready to go, “Fifteen minutes ago,” Rucastle shrieked. “Fifteen fucking minutes ago! So now we are completely behind schedule!” Rucastle screamed. “And why is he not in bed?” 

“Daddy, don’t be cross, it’s my fault,” the boy’s voice wobbled from behind the bathroom door. “I wanted to watch a DVD. I wanted a snack. I made Mrs. Toller take me downstairs.”

If John and Wiggins hadn’t heard the eagerness in the child’s voice, asking to help burn Sherlock, they would have felt sorry for the lad.

“Oh, son,” Rucastle’s voice softened. “I’m not cross at you. I’m never cross at you. You are the best thing I’ve ever made, don’t you know that? You are my favorite design.”

John felt a wave of hot jealous rage crash down him. Rucastle was a bastard but he got to keep his son. John always thought he was a good man and yet, his daughter got taken away from him. _But I will do everything I can to reunite Evie with her father as well as the rest of her family,_ John vowed, closing his eyes, not sure how much more of this sick drama he could take.

In a calmer voice, Rucastle said, “It’s just as well he’s up. We need to get going. I need to change into something more practical. You get him out of his PJ’s and into something suitable for traveling. Have his rucksack ready to go?”

“Yes sir,” Mrs. Toller said crisply.

“I still have to pee,” the boy announced.

John nodded at Wiggins. Wiggins’ lips were white but he wrapped both hands around the butt of the gun, finger on the trigger.

The doorknob started to turn.

“Not down here son,” Rucastle said quickly. “Mrs. Toller, take him upstairs, now. The Boss is _here,_ in the boathouse and Sherlock is more than likely on his way inside.” 

“You heard your father,” Mrs. Toller said sharply. “Up. Now.”

Whining about his full-to-bursting bladder, the boy stopped turning the doorknob and soon (but not soon enough in John’s opinion), all three of their voices faded away.

“Move, _now_ ,” John hauled himself back up on his feet, ignoring the tearing pain in his upper arm as he popped a few more sutures. He was going to be a bloody mess when this was over, literally. “Bill, _move your arse_.”  

“Right, right, right,” Wiggins said, wiping a sweat-damp palm on his jeans and then opening the door. He looked left then right then opened the door wider. He jerked his head towards John then hurried out the door. John managed to hop out of the tiny loo and then tucked the crutches under his armpits again. He managed to keep up with Wiggins well enough as he whisked down the darkened hallway towards the cellar door. 

“God _bleeding_ dammit,” Wiggins hissed when he tried to turn the doorknob. “Locked.”

“Can you pick it?” John whispered, heart speeding like an out of control freight train.

 “Yeah, gonna take time,” Wiggins handed John his gun back, took out a small torch from the back of his jeans pocket. Then he wriggled out of his rucksack. He knelt down and unzipped it, wincing at the loud sound the zip seemed to make. He rooted around until he found the pick lock set Sherlock had given him earlier. “’K,” he grunted, kneeling, the penlight clamped between his teeth as he began his work.

Both men froze again when they heard faint voices from around the corner. John relaxed only by a fraction of an inch when he heard Sherlock’s familiar baritone, “I _know_ where the pool is, you imbecile. Not only do I not require an escort, but your stupidity is depressing and demoralizing therefore I do not wish to be in your presence any longer.” John couldn’t make out what Sherlock’s escort said to him, but he definitely heard a distinct yelp of pain, then a thud as a body hit the floor.

John couldn’t help but smile when he heard Sherlock announce: “Moron.”

Then light flooded the hallway to the cellar. “You’re welcome,” Sherlock called down the hallway as he proceeded towards the pool.

Sherlock strolled rather than rushed towards the pool, flicking lights on in every room he entered. He sensed a trap was being carefully laid out  just for him.

_About time, the tedium of the night was going to be the death of me_. He placed his hands in his pockets, feeling the mobile and the epinephrine syringe John insisted he carry with him.

After the shock of seeing the dog carriers and that sad, battered bait dog and the innocent pit bull trapped in a dog fighting pen had worn off, things had gotten rather dull. In Sherlock’s opinion, of course.

Mary did not seem to agree with his assessment of the situation. She had fidgeted with the red sash on her dress and looked simultaneously worried and annoyed. The red popped out, like a splash of blood on fresh snow. The white dress seemed to be some awful parody of a wedding gown, Sherlock observed after a closer look. Not _her_ wedding gown, exactly. But a wedding gown, something a younger woman would wear if she was eloping.

She had cleared her throat. “Violet and Mr. Rucastle seem to be taking a while,” Mary had to struggle to keep her voice sounding normal. Sherlock stifled his irritation. He needed _AGRA_ , not _Mary_ tonight. _If her sentimental weakness for John and their missing baby gets the lot of us killed, then I do hope there is an afterlife. Because then I will hunt her down and haunt her for all eternity, remind her we are dead because of her stupidity._ He fumed to himself as Mary nattered on until she finally trailed off and fell silent.

She resumed fiddling with her sash again. Sherlock observed what she was really doing and his anger had evaporated. _Ahhh… good girl…_ he started to smirk then quickly rearranged his face into a neutral expression.

It wouldn’t do, letting the Black Lotus gang realize she was anything more than a soft-spoken doctor’s wife. Or who she really was.

Plus Mary’s dress had been a bit too clingy to hide a gun. An old fashioned straight razor on the other hand could be easily tucked into the glittery, heavy sash Rucastle had artfully draped and tied around her waist.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a cold Eastern wind blow through him when he realized what this woman was going to do to his brother for his role in Marissa’s disappearance.

_Later. Focus on this case, not on Mycroft. Focus on Jim Moriarty 2.0, whomever he might be. Or she,_ Sherlock added diplomatically in his head.

Just then, one of the gang members had received a text and had smiled broadly after reading it. _Finally_ , Sherlock had thought, giving his suit jacket a sharp tug, preparing for battle.

He already deduced what  tedious ruse they were going to use to separate him from Mary and get him back inside the house. “Miss Smith has been planning a surprise for you, Mr. Holmes. She had asked Mr. Rucastle for his assistance. She’s waiting for you at the pool.”

_Clever, not entirely creative, but efficient_ , Sherlock had sighed to himself. “Always full of surprises, that one,” he droned, utterly incapable of keeping up the Besotted Fiancé act one second longer. “And Mrs. Watson? Surely she’s not to stay here in the garage with those dogs?” he asked as his eyes scoured the enormous garage. _Why on earth would Rucastle build a panic room in a garage?_ he had wondered, noting the square footage of the interior did not match the perimeter  of the exterior.

“It’s quite dull in here, after all,” Sherlock had added, reluctant to leave Mary on her own. John would consider that Not Good. Probably. Maybe. Most likely. 

But Gang He had merely examined his buffed nails, bored as Sherlock. “Rucastle’s on his way back, said he’d keep Mrs. Watson entertained.”

“Oh I don’t mind Sherlock,” Mary had chimed in. Surprised, Sherlock turned and lifted his shaggy black brows.

Saw a familiar homicidal glint in those sapphire eyes.

Sherlock had debated for a split second. Then he decided he really didn’t care if Mary ended Rucastle’s miserable existence or not. He just hoped she was smart enough to make it look like either an accident or self-defense. Especially with Mycroft breathing down everyone’s neck.

“Maybe,” Sherlock had drawled, hoping Mary would pick up on his hint. “Mr. Rucastle would be so kind as to take Mrs. Watson for an evening boat ride. The path down to the boathouse is not treacherous, is it?”

Mary’s eyes had widened just slightly. When she had squeezed his wrist and told him to go enjoy his surprise, Sherlock knew for sure she had picked up on what he was telling her.

_Moriarty is in the boat house._

She only had one job, really.

So Sherlock, hands behind his back, followed the gangster with the mobile back inside the house. When they reached the hallway that lead to the cellar, Sherlock had gladly knocked the idiot out and turned the light on so John and Wiggins could see what they were doing while Wiggins picked the door lock.

After telling John and Wiggins, “You’re welcome,” he took two silent steps and then stopped, cocking his head. He could hear the creak of footsteps above. Someone was in a hurry. Stomping back and forth. Probably from wardrobe to bed and back again. Packing. Whatever “surprise” they had planned for him, they did not intend to stick around for the end results. 

Sherlock shook his head at their cowardice and crept through the house towards the pool. He turned the lights on in the lounge and saw that the sliding glass door leading out to the deck was open.  The evening breeze ruffled the curtains.

With a haughty smile, Sherlock stepped through the door, turned and walked outside onto the deck.  “What a wonderful surprise,” he started to say but the words died immediately on his lips.

He had expected to see Violet held hostage.

Not Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft’s frosty words came back to mock him: _Dear, dear, Baby Brother, you don’t often make errors. But when you do, they are staggeringly enormous._

Sherlock immediately schooled his face as to not reveal his panicking thoughts. _She was safe. She was supposed to be_ safe. _She was out of the country. She was on holiday with her sister in Majorca. This cannot be happening_.

But Sherlock could not deny the evidence in front of him. Mrs. Hudson sat in a plastic yard chair that would have looked more at home at a jumble sale or an abandoned country club than at a posh place like  this. Her wrists were bound to the arms of the plastic chair with silken ribbons. The moron who had bound her had tied bows instead of knots, probably to make look more festive. _Look Sherlock, a present for you…_

Her ankles were tied together with silken ribbons as well. Her feet were bare. It was obvious (to Sherlock anyway, even in the dim lighting around the pool) that Mrs. Hudson had been wearing the same festive floor-length sundress for at least two days now. She had obviously planned on going to the beach when she had been abducted. She also must have been wearing slip-on shoes that had fallen off when they took her. Even though her feet were dirty, it was apparent she had treated herself to a pedicure three days ago. Pink, with little flowers delicately painted on the big toes.

Mrs. Hudson immediately burst into tears upon seeing Sherlock. But the gag prevented her from speaking.

Her tears snapped Sherlock out of his spiraling panic. _Focus. Think. This, this is nothing compared to standing on that rooftop with Jim Moriarty._

“Enough of the waterworks, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock droned, clasping his hands behind his back. Mrs. Hudson gulped, nodded and actually tried to stop weeping. Sherlock could tell by how her leaking eyes crinkled she was attempting a brave smile for him that was hidden behind the gag.

The tied-and-gagged Mrs. Hudson sat perilously close to the pool’s edge. Toller stood behind her, one hand gripping the chair, the other a gun. His dove-grey suit and white shirt were as pristine as ever but he wore no necktie. He also neglected to have a handkerchief in his breast pocket as well. His watery eyes gleamed in excitement.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down and observed Toller had a slight erection. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and locked his eyes on Toller’s face.

“You never learn, do you Mr. Holmes?” Toller pointed the gun at Sherlock. “Never stop nosing, do you. Can’t keep your conk out of decent people’s business, can you?”

“Decent people’s business, yes. Despicable cretins like you and your lot, no,” Sherlock leisurely took his mobile out of his coat pocket, flipped it in the air and then set it on one of the nearby tables. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. Fingered the syringe as he sauntered closer to Toller and Mrs. Hudson. “Decent people are dull. The criminal element is far more fascinating. Tell me Toller, when exactly did you start burning your victims? The symbolism is a bit overwrought, don’t you think? The theatre world rejected you, burned you, so now you burn the actresses? But I think I could spend hours talking with you. Your psychosis intrigues me.” 

“Stop right there,” Toller took the safety off the gun with a practiced flick of the thumb. Sherlock froze and clasped his hands behind his back again. “They told me, they told me not to let you inside my head. I’m not telling you anything about me. My orders are to give you a message.” 

Sherlock lifted his brows. “I’m not stopping you.”

Toller lowered the gun and quirked his lips up into something that Sherlock assumed were supposed to be a smile. “Everyone thinks your hamartia is your lack of compassion, your lack of sentiment. Holmes, the robot. Holmes, the machine. Holmes, the walking-talking-computer. Holmes, the man who only cares about _the game_. But Jim, he figured out that wasn’t true,” Toller ran his free hand over Mrs. Hudson’s fading fawn-colored hair.

Sherlock longed to strike him for touching her. He kept his face utterly impassive and hid the rage stewing in pit of his stomach.

“You can thank Irene Adler for providing that knowledge to Jim. You _love_. You do. Your fake-suicide to protect the doctor, the cop and this one here,” he stroked Mrs. Hudson’s hair again. Mrs. Hudson pulled away from his touch as much as she could. “Your housekeeper proves that you love. You aren’t as heartless as you’d like to believe.”

“Mm, the number of people who would disagree with you outnumbers the population of China,” Sherlock made himself sound bored, “Including my housekeeper.”

Mrs. Hudson made some muted comment. Sherlock felt fairly confident she said “Not your housekeeper.”

“Apologies. Your landlady. But if you didn’t care about her then why did you buy the block of flats from your landlady for thrice what they are worth?”   

“It’s an up and coming neighborhood. I’ll sell it for ten times what I bought it for, obviously.”

But Toller shook his head, “Everyone thinks your pressure point is _John Watson_. The devoted the doctor, the trusted sidekick. Even Jim Moriarty made that mistake. It’s not John who is your greatest pressure point though. It’s your _women_ who are your pressure point. The unexpected harem you’ve accrued over the past few years. And they are all going to die, tonight. While you stand here with the knowledge there is nothing you can do to prevent it. John Watson may have forgiven you for The Fall but he won’t forgive you that you left his wife behind to die as you went to sniff out a new clue.”

“Don’t be so sure, they’re going through a rough patch at the moment. He might send you a thank-you card if you bump her off.”

“Even so, you like her. You care about her. You helped plan her wedding. You held her hand as she cried about her poor dead baby. She’s going to die tonight, Mr. Holmes, along with your fiancée. Oh yes, all of them. Your best friend’s wife, your future bride, your mother, your mother-figure here,” he clamped his hand down on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. “And last but not least, your pretty little pregnant pathologist.”

Sherlock’s heart twisted. _Molly… the baby… no…please, no._

Mrs. Hudson started crying again. Toller continued his speech, talking over Mrs. Hudson’s muffled sobs: “Jim really was fond of her, Molly Hooper. Shame he underestimated her, but we didn’t. We learned from Jim’s mistakes. And tonight, we avenge Jim’s murder with their deaths.”

“Jim Moriarty killed himself,” Sherlock reminded him.

“You just as good as pulled the trigger,” Toller snapped. “You drove him mad.”

“Mm, no, I think he had arrived at that particular destination all by himself,” Sherlock took another step closer towards Toller and Mrs. Hudson. “Besides, you really didn’t do your research, did you?”

“Stand back, Holmes,” Toller lifted the gun again. Pointed it at Sherlock’s head.

But Sherlock spotted the tremor in Toller’s hand. In a scoffing voice, the detective ordered the drunk, “Put that away before you shoot yourself in the foot like the numbskull that you are. You’ve been drinking to steady your nerves so your aim will be nonexistent at this point. At the angle you have the gun pointed at right now, you would miss me by at least a meter.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Toller adjusted his aim.

“And now you’ll miss me by two,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please stop making an arse of yourself, it’s wearisome and I wish to discuss more interesting topics. Besides, obviously I’m wanted alive otherwise you would have just started firing away the minute I stepped foot onto the deck and still probably miss due to your intoxication. But if you kill me, you’ll be in worse trouble than what you are already with the police. Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t anyone inform you?” Sherlock’s voice became syrupy sweet. “You’ve been caught. All of you. Implicated in the Burned Girls’ case. And, yes, sorry, nearly forgot to mention a cop spotted you breaking into the Watsons’ terrace house. The police are on their way, warrants in hand. Not that I care,” Sherlock took another step closer as Toller limply lowered the gun to his side, goggling Sherlock. “Once the mystery is solved, what happens next is none of my concern. Court is boring, sentencing is anti-climatic and ugh, the appeals system. The endless appeals that won’t do you a bit of good as you’ll have to stay in prison during that process. Dull. So I really don’t care if you get caught by the police. You could scarper right now if you wanted, I wouldn’t stop you. But then you’d be in the glue with your other boss, the big boss, not Rucastle. Not that pompous obese dilettante you’ve been saddled with all these years. The big boss. Come on,” Sherlock wheedled him. “Who is he? Who is the new Jim Moriarty?”

“There’s no _new_ Moriarty,” Toller babbled, eyes rounded by nerves and booze. He took a step back, away from Mrs. Hudson. “There’s no _new_ Moriarty, there’s only Moriarty.”

“’The King is dead, long live the King’, you mean?”  

“I mean there has only been one James Moriarty,” Toller said stubbornly. He lifted his gun again, “On your knees, Holmes.”

“Nope,” Sherlock kept his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll kill you.”

“No. You won’t. And your aim is still awful.”

“I’ll kill her,” he pointed the gun to her temple. “Can’t miss her from here, can I?” 

But Sherlock saw Toller’s finger was not on the trigger. “You already informed me of that fact, plus you don’t plan on shooting her. That’s too quick. You’re planning on something horrifying and tortuous. Something painful so I suffer right along with her.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You lot really are unoriginal.”

Toller lowered the gun. “You really are mad! _I’m going to kill her!_ ”

Sherlock locked his eerie eyes on Toller. “Then do it.”

“What?”

“Do it. Push her into the pool and let her drown as you were instructed.” 

Toller swallowed hard, not sure what to do. He had been told the old biddy was important to Sherlock. “You’d… really just stand there and watch her drown?”

“I told you,” Sherlock’s voice sing-songed. “You didn’t do your research.” In his usual, resonant baritone, he reminded Toller, “I’m a high-functioning sociopath. I honestly am incapable of feeling any sort of emotion, good, bad or indifferent if you kill her or anyone else.”

If Toller would have taken Sherlock’s pulse, he would have known the detective was lying.

Behind his marble smooth face, his incredible mind wove facts together to form a plan as masterfully as Rumpelstiltskin spun wheat into gold.

_The average human can hold their breath underwater for one minute. Brain damage occurs after three minutes of oxygen deprivation._

_I have four minutes to save Mrs. Hudson after she is pushed into the water._  

“You are bluffing,” Toller meanwhile scoffed.

Mrs. Hudson gripped the armrests of her chair tightly. Sherlock wished there was a way to reassure her he would not allow any harm to come to her. He also wished sometimes she was a bit brighter too ( _Why on earth did you have get yourself abducted in the first place, Hudders? Most inconvenient._ ) But it couldn’t be helped. Mrs. Hudson liked her herbal soothers a little too much. Sherlock suspected many of her vital brain cells had been killed off by the soothers during the past few years.

Sherlock took another step closer. “Push her in and find out,” he shrugged. “Let me guess. After I’m forced to watch her drown, you’re to take me to the boat house and watch Miss Smith be murdered in front of me, aren’t you?” As Toller gawped at him, Sherlock added, in a bored voice, “Then you’re to trot me back to the garage and watch Mrs. Watson’s untimely demise. Nod if I’m correct since you’re incapable of speaking.”

Toller nodded.

“I suppose the deaths of my mother and the pathologist are being recorded and then I’ll be forced to watch them? I deduce you have something particularly heinous planned for the pathologist because you erroneously assumed she was important to me?” Sherlock shook his head like a teacher disappointed that a student had missed an easy question on an exam. “I conned her into helping me with The Fall. Just as Moriarty manipulated her so he could get close to me. You see, I learned from Jim as well. As for my mother,” he shrugged again. “You’re doing me and my brother a favor, so thank you.”

“You’re a monster,” Toller said blankly, “An utter monster.”

“No more than you,” Sherlock tilted his head towards Toller. “Although I am not the one getting off on this power play,” Sherlock let his eyes flick back down at Toller’s crotch before training them on Toller’s face again. As Toller flushed, Sherlock added, “Also I think you prefer the term “pyromaniac”, yes? I personally prefer “sociopath” over “monster.” “Sociopath” just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?” He took two giant steps and was within reaching distance of Mrs. Hudson. When Toller lifted the gun again, Sherlock sighed, “Put it away. You’re not going to kill me and I’m not going to stop you. In fact,” Sherlock swiftly reached for Mrs. Hudson, breathed a quick “Sorry,” in her ear and pulled the chair closer to the pool. The feet of the chair scraped loudly against the concrete. Mrs. Hudson shouted something incomprehensible as Sherlock shoved her into the water. He took one dispassionate look at his landlady sinking into the deep end and put his hands into his pockets again.

Fingered the syringe again.

His mental stop watch started ticking down the seconds… _Three minutes and forty-eight seconds…_

Stunned, Toller squawked, “You’re mad, you’re just as mad as they say!”

Meanwhile, Violet Hunter and the Earl of Winchester were having a variation of the same conversation …as Sherlock had crept through the darkened house; the Earl had smiled at Violet as she glowered at him.

“The gun, please,” the Earl said pleasantly, still leaning on John’s old cane. He stretched out his free hand, his hideously scarred hand. “There’s a guard outside. If you murder me, he’ll hear the shot, make the call to have what’s left of your family terminated and you’ll be taken to the closest American military base. They have a surprisingly low tolerance for terrorists these days. Also, I doubt you’ll retain any protection you’ve been enjoying from my country if you kill a lord.”

“I have a feeling you wouldn’t be missed,” Violet informed him through clenched teeth.

“Me? Probably not,” the Earl agreed amicably. “Your sister-in-law and niece however,” he paused to watch all the color in Violet’s face drain away. “Would be missed dreadfully, I believe. Vivian is quite a bright little thing. Rather self-righteous too, a strong sense of justice at such a tender age. Must spring from the Hunter side of her family,” he smiled again. “The gun, Agent Hunter, if you please.”

Lips thinned, she hiked up the gauzy, billowing skirts, groped for the Glock and slid it out of its holster. She held it up for him to see, hit the button and caught the clip as it slipped out. She caught it and tossed both away from her instead of giving it to him.

He inclined his head with a slight, sardonic grin. He saluted her with his damaged hand, acknowledging her continued defiance when he heard the gun and clip clatter as they hit the dirty concrete floor.

Her feline eyes never left the Earl’s ruined face during his mocking salutation. Mentally she flipped through files as she stared at him, unblinkingly, searching for his pressure point.

“They’re just using you, you know,” she finally said. “The _Rouge_ , once you become a liability, they’ll throw you under the bus, if that’s what they need to do to protect their business.”

“Oh, I have protection set in place for when that happens,” he breathed. “Thanks to the Holmes brothers, I will never have to worry about the _Rouge_.” 

Violet barked a laugh and clutched at the folds of her cumbersome dress. “You honestly think they’re going to protect _you_?” 

“Agent Hunter, they don’t have a choice. Mycroft has been shielding me since we were fourteen years old and will continue to do so in order to protect what he loves dearest.”

“His power,” Violet sniffed.

“His brother,” the Earl corrected her.

“He doesn’t care about his brother.”

“That’s what he wants everyone to believe. Would I have bothered to threaten your sister-in-law and niece if I believed you didn’t care about them?” the Earl purred. “Mycroft has worse enemies than the _Rouge_ , believe it or not. You can’t meddle in other counties’ affairs without ruffling a few feathers. If they believed the Ice Man had a soft spot for his insane brother, William would have been dead before he ever dropped out of uni.”

_Found it_ , Violet pounced on the Earl’s pressure point. She stroked it first, as if she was lazily running a finger over her dog’s head. “Sherlock’s not insane,” she laughed again, scornfully this time. “It boils your blood, doesn’t it? That one of your prey paid you back for all you did to him. That you were outwitted by a little boy.”

Finally the Earl’s urbane veneer cracked. “He is insane, he _set me on fire_.”

“That’s not what pisses you off though,” now Violet purred. She started circling him, her skirts swishing around her as she walked. She hiked them up higher so she could walk freely. “You’ve learned to live with the pain, with the scars, made them an asset actually. Look how you’ve risen from tragedy. No, what really chaps your ass,” she stepped closer to him, smiling. “What really _burns_ you is that Sherlock is the one you can’t control, hold down. He would never just submit. You always had to chase him, always had to fight him. At first the chase was fun, it’s what got you off, the psychological torture. But even when you found him, caught him, he still would fight you tooth and nail. He would never just kneel for you and give you what you demanded. You had to take it from him. Sherlock is the one who got away.”

They were nose to nose now. “Sherlock never got away from me,” the Earl seethed, his breath hot and rank in Violet’s face. “Yes, I took him. I made him the man he is today. His lack of empathy, his thick hide, his ability to divorce emotion from the facts of the situation, he got that all from me, what I taught him. I took his brilliance and made it shine like the sun. Without me, he would have been just an ordinary twinkling little star ignored in this vast universe. Because of me, the world revolves around him, soaking up his light and I will be reminding him and his brother of that fact. He owes everything to me and my family. The Cullen-Culpeppers dragged the Holmeses out of debt. We saved them and Mycroft will save me when the _Rouge_ does decide I am redundant. Tonight is a reminder to my dear old chum _Mickey_ that William is _mine_.” 

Violet shook her head. She felt cool and calm and clear as a brisk winter day. “Sherlock Holmes does not belong to you. He belongs to the world.”

In a rapid, fluid motion, she lifted her skirts up even higher so she could kick the cane from out the Earl’s grasp. She caught the cane before the Earl even realized what was happening. She cracked the cane hard, against his right upper arm, then his left, then swung with all her might and smashed the cane against his head.

The Earl slumped ungainly to the ground. Blood dribbled from his temple and out his nose.

The door burst open. Violet didn’t think. She just whirled around like a mad dervish in a prom dress and swung the cane like a baseball bat, hitting a mobile out the Black Lotus guard’s hand.

The guard yelped as his mobile fell to the ground. He recovered quickly but made the error of trying to tackle her instead of going for a weapon. As he came at her, Violet viciously jabbed the guard right in the solar plexus with John’s cane. As he gasped for breath and fell to his knees, she cracked him hard right in between the neck and shoulder, right were the carotid artery was. John’s cane splintered in half. The guard fell flat onto his face. His left foot twitched, then he became utterly still.

Violet blew a stray curl off her forehead. “Didn’t bring a gun, did you? Thought you could handle a _girl_ on your own, didn’t you?” she sneered as she smashed his mobile with the heel of the stupid shoes Rucastle made her wear. Then she kicked the shoes off. “Asshole,” she added as she snatched up her gun and clip. She stormed out of the boathouse as she slid the magazine back in her own gun. Her gauzy dress glittered in the moonlight as she racked her gun while she rushed barefoot up the path back towards the house.

She had feeling everything was going to hell in a hand basket. Her spidey sense wasn’t just tingling. It stung as if a thousand black widows had started attacking her all at once.

An almost inhuman shriek of pain coming from the pool confirmed her fears and she started to run. Her hair fell out of its up-do and streamed behind her like a red battle banner.

_Three minutes and seven seconds…_ the mental time clock read in Sherlock’s head as Toller continued to rant at him. “You are just as lunatic as they say! Is it true then,” he crept closer to Sherlock. “Is it true that you killed Charles Augustus Magnussen?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock breathed.

Gun forgotten, Toller stared wonderingly up at Sherlock. “Why?”

“Because he was annoying,” Sherlock said then leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear, “Because he threatened Mrs. Watson, you unobservant alcoholic fool.” With that he jabbed Toller in the cheek with his epinephrine syringe. Toller howled and dropped the gun as he grabbed at his face blindly, trying to pull the syringe out.

While Violet had started running up the hill at the sound of Toller’s shriek, Sherlock grabbed the man by the lapels of his coat and head-butted him. Toller’s watery eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body slackened. Without missing a beat, Sherlock let him drop to the ground, took two, quick, large steps and dove into the water, as elegantly as any Olympic swimmer. He reached Mrs. Hudson easily enough, but trying to undo her bounds underwater proved to be more time-consuming and difficult than he anticipated, even though proper knots hadn’t been used. Just those silly bows. But those silly bows had been double-knotted. Bubbles stopped coming out of her nose and her head lolled to one side when Sherlock, his fingers stiff and numb by this point, finally undid the ribbons tethering her to the chair. He didn’t even bother with her feet, just grabbed her underneath her arms and kicked his way up to the surface.

Lungs burning, he burst to the surface with a huge, whooping gasp. He pulled Mrs. Hudson with him to the shallow end, then simply picked her up and carried her out of the pool. Laying her down the side of pool, he ripped the gag off of her. He placed his fingers along her throat and found her pulse, weak, but _there_. Her heart hadn’t given up yet. “Mrs. Hudson, _Mrs. Hudson_ ,” he shouted at her, as he tilted her head to the side and grasped her chin to open her mouth. Water streamed out of her mouth and nose but she still didn’t take a breath on her own. In a quieter, more desperate voice, he added “Martha, please…” as he turned her head back to center.

He was about to begin administering CPR when she abruptly gagged. As she struggled to sit up, she vomited up more water with a sickening belch. Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh Sherlock,” she said feebly as he helped her sit up. “Dreadful boy,” she said faintly. “Should take you over my knee and cane you for that stunt,” but she uttered that threat with a tremulous smile.

Sherlock let his guard down for a moment and he hugged his Not-A- Housekeeper tight. Then he recovered. “We must go. Quickly. Can you walk?”

“I… I think so, I mean, I’ll try.”

Sherlock untied the silken cords binding her feet then helped her up. Her legs immediately crumpled beneath her. He scooped her up and walked as quickly as possible, towards his mobile. Thank God he had deduced Toller’s insidious plan immediately and had taken his mobile out of his pockets.

They were back on the other side of the pool now, on the deep end, near where Toller lay. Just as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson reached the table where his mobile was, Violet Smith’s panicked voice reached their ears, “Sherlock? Sherlock?” 

Sherlock whipped around and saw Violet pushing the gate open and running towards them. She was disheveled but unhurt. Miraculously, she had managed to maintain her British accent. He was glad she had checked her surroundings before yelling her head off.

“Violet, I need you to text my brother,” he jerked his head towards his mobile. “And tell him that our mother and Molly Lestrade are in mortal peril. Tell him to send MI-6 to their homes _now_.”

“Sherlock, the boathou-”

“ _Now_ , Violet,” he snapped at her. “Their master plan was to murder all the important women in my life, including you. Call Mycroft. My hands are full,” he turned his back to her and started stalking towards the door. “At the end of the message, add “Stormcrow”. That’s our code so he knows I’m not taking the piss out of him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Violet snatched up Sherlock’s mobile. Gun in one hand, Smartphone in other, Violet followed Sherlock as she clumsily thumbed the following text to Mycroft:

This is Violet.  
Copper Beaches compromised.  
Your mother and Molly L in danger.   
SH said send help now.  
Stormcrow – VS

Back in London, Mycroft’s mobile hummed moments later. Stiffly, he pulled it out of his suit jacket. Anthea was driving so he turned his head away from  her so she wouldn’t see how his face twisted in pain as he moved. Anthea gracefully pretended not to notice her supervisor’s discomfort.

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he read Violet’s terse message.

He thumbed a text to Agent Mitton then turned his head slowly towards his driver. The repercussions of his accident during the debacle at Winterbourne-on-Avon continued to plague him. “Drive faster,” he intoned to Anthea, hiding  the intense soreness he suffered from the vehicle roll-over Violet Hunter had caused.

“Yes sir,” Anthea applied more pressure to the gas pedal.

Mycroft touched the butterfly bandage on his forehead and repressed a groan.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the tension and drama of the outside world, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes relaxed in their lounge. Mrs. Holmes was gingerly pecking on the keys of the laptop Mycroft bought her for Christmas. Mr. Holmes was sipping tea and reading the newspaper. His bare feet were up on the ottoman. Mrs. Holmes wore bunny slippers and her woolly bright pink dressing robe, despite the fact it was still August.

“Dear, should we go back to Oklahoma for our next holiday?”

“Hm? Oh, no darling. Rather dusty there, Oklahoma. Let’s go somewhere sunny.”

“Oklahoma was sunny.”

“Yes, but it was also dusty. Bad for my allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies.”

“I get hay fever.”

“That’s not the same as allergies, dear,” Mrs. Holmes continued to surf the Internet. “What about Florida? We’ve never been to Florida.”

“Isn’t Florida a bit swampy?”

“Only parts of it. The rest of it is all beaches.”

“Mm.”

“We could ask William’s housekeeper. He said Mrs. Hudson used to live in Florida.”

“Mm, yes dear, sounds good.”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“What? Oh, of course dear. Florida. Ask Mrs. Hudson. Yes, sounds delightful.”

“Oh, you’re as useful as a fork during the soup course,” Mrs. Holmes groused.

Mr. Holmes lowered his newspaper in order to smile at his wife.  “Florida sounds divine. We can go to Disneyland.”

“That’s in California, you twit.”

“Same difference, really. I’ll ring Will tomorrow. Ask him to put us in touch with Mrs. Hudson.” 

“On the other hand,” Mrs. Holmes continued to scroll through Pinterest. “Myrtle Beach looks lovely as well. Seem to have excellent golf as well.”

“I do like golf,” Mr. Holmes lifted his newspaper back up and allowed himself a slight, exasperated shake of his head.

As the Holmeses bantered back and forth, their stalker jerked his head down when he saw his mobile lit up. He snatched it up and read the text. All it said was:

Now

“About bloody time,” he said as he snatched up his hat and tucked his gun into the back of his trousers. He slipped out of his car and gave his jacket a sharp tug and adjusted the belt. He tucked his hat underneath his arm and crossed the street, walking up the pavement towards the lovely red brick house.

Across the city, another villain received the exact same text.

“Took’em long enough,” he griped under his breath as he punched the code to gain entrance to Greg and Molly’s block of flats. He held the crow bar he had retrieved from the boot of the car close to his side. Amazing that no one really noticed.

He rode up the lift to the Lestrade’s floor alone. The hallway was deserted when the lift doors opened. He sauntered down the hallway, pausing before the Lestrades’ flat to pull his ski mask down. His back flat against the wall, he pounded on the door.

He smelt popcorn and hot melted butter. How cozy. A night in.

A suspicious voice then called from behind the door. “Who’s there?”

“Name’s Bob,” he lied. “I’m with Holmes and the Homeless Network. Need to talk to you, DI.”

There was a pause then Lestrade said coldly. “Not my division.”

Molly sat up when she heard the temperature drop in her husband’s voice. She put her hand on her baby bump. “Greg?”

“Call 999,” he mouthed to her.

Molly hoisted herself up off the sofa as quickly as she could and snatched up her mobile, punching in the emergency number.

Just as a cool female voice sounded in Molly’s ear, asking her what the emergency was, the door flew open as the intruder kicked it in. Lestrade backpedalled just in time before it hit him.

“Molly, _run_ ,” he cried out as he charged forward, attacking the home intruder.

Molly fled. Moving as fast as she could with her heavy pregnant belly, she raced into their bedroom and slammed the door shut, mobile still in her hand.

She locked the door and sobbed into the mobile, “There’s someone in our flat and he’s attacking my husband, DI Lestrade,” she added as she ducked into the wardrobe.

Meanwhile Lestrade continued to struggle with the ski-masked man, trying to press the crow bar against the intruder’s throat. The intruder jerked his knee up, connecting with Lestrade’s chest. Lestrade bent over double and backpedalled away from the intruder, hand on his sternum.

The intruder raised the crow bar then paused, considering. He knew he could cave the copper’s thick skull in with one swing. But his instructions had been quite clear.

_Do not kill the cop. Just the wife_.

He didn’t know why and he didn’t care. The money he was getting for this job was fucking amazing. There was even a bonus if he filmed it, the gorier the better.

So he swung the cross bar and connected with the outside of Lestrade’s outer thigh, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to break any bones. The detective inspector lost his balance and flopped to the ground with a sharp yelp of pain. As he scrambled to get back on his feet, the intruder kicked him in the gut, hard. As Lestrade struggled to catch his breath, the intruder tossed the crow bar lazily behind him. He knelt down next to Lestrade, grabbed him by his silvery hair and slammed his head against the floor. He slammed it again and Lestrade succumbed to unconsciousness.

Humming now, he strolled to the kitchen and selected the sharpest looking knife.

_What would be gorier than an unplanned Caesarian_ , he smiled to himself as he ambled towards the master bedroom.  It’ll be fast, messy and fatal for mum and babe. Perfect.

He pounded on the bedroom door. “Open up, your man’s dead,” he shouted. “No one’s coming to save you, bitch.” He pressed his ear against the door, heard nothing. Not even crying. Odd. They always wept in the end. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he sighed, backing up to kick this door in as well. These modern flats and their flimsy doors.

The master door flew open as well, nearly off the hinges. The intruder expected to see an empty room, expected to see the copper’s wife cowering either in a wardrobe or in the loo.

He didn’t expect to see Molly standing there in her pyjamas, with her hair pulled back in its usual pony-tail, holding a gun. Her husband’s police issue Sig Sauer.

He didn’t expect to see her expertly switch off the safety, just as she was taught on the firing ranges. She pointed the gun right at him.

Too late, the intruder realized he brought a knife to a gunfight.

“Oh balls,” he said.

Molly pulled the trigger.  

But Molly Hooper Lestrade was not the only woman shedding blood that night. While Violet had her duel  of wits with the Earl and Sherlock had been busy outmaneuvering Toller, Mary had her own mission to complete.

Almost as observant as the Great Detective himself, Mary had found herself wondering if the carefully laid plans had started to unravel.

If that was the case, she only had one priority.

Find John. Get them both out of there.

So she had turned her back towards her captors, only two now. Gang He and one of his minions. One toady had followed Rucastle and Violet towards the boathouse. Both she and Sherlock had deducedthat he really wasn’t all that bright. He hadn’t even bothered to bring any sort of weapon with him, just his mobile. Then another underling had brought Sherlock back to the house. Zhang Yan and her grandson had of course done a bunk ages ago. Mary congratulated the old lady on her foresight and had the feeling she’d be back to haunt them all.

She pretended to stare forlornly at the dogs still tied up in the fighting pit. Granted, the animal cruelty did upset her, but not enough to undo her. She was still…

_Who am I exactly?_

She closed her eyes and told herself to stop being such an idiot. Now was not the time for an existential identity crisis. No matter what her name was, she was still John’s wife and Maisie’s mother. The two most important things she could possibly be. The name she had been born with, all the other names she had assumed in her old, bloody life did not matter. She took a deep breath, reached into her sash and drew out the straight razor. She had found it in one of the many loos in that big old house. How handy. And how stupid to leave something like that lying around when there were children and assassins present.

She flicked the blade open. She felt the men’s eyes on her back.

“When is Mr. Rucastle coming back?” she made her voice sound weak and fluttery.

“Mr. Rucastle asked us to keep you entertained,” Mary felt a cold finger running down from the nape of her neck all the way down her back as Gang He purred, “For just a little while longer.”

His remaining underling chortled.

Mary’s stomach plummeted. She knew what kind of “entertainment” these men had in mind for her. So she felt no guilt when she whirled around and slashed the blade across Gang He’s throat. As he gagged on his own blood, Mary reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out the pretty silver pistol Rucastle had given him a few moments ago. Her creamy exposed skin and snowy white dress now were spattered with scarlet flecks. 

As she pivoted away from him, Gang He collapsed in a bloody heap. Muscle-memory guided her fingers as she clicked the hammer back and pointed the gun at the last remaining gangster.

Her face crinkled in disgust when she saw the chortling underling had already undone the snap and zip of his trousers in anticipation of tonight’s “entertainment”.

She hadn’t intended on killing him, but upon seeing that, she gladly pulled the trigger. Twice. Once in the crotch then again in the chest.

All the dogs in the garage began howling and whining at the sounds of the gunshots.

As her would-be rapists died in pools of their own blood, Mary turned back to the dog fighting ring. She opened the gate and told the friendly pit bull, who whimpered, “Go on, you. Run.”

The pit bull slunk past her, sniffed at Gang He’s corpse then high-tailed it out of there.

Mary knelt by the bait dog, who cowered and whined as she came closer. “Oh,” she crooned, putting her weapons down. “I’m not going to hurt you, sweetie.” Nervously, she reached for the dog’s collar, afraid he’d bite. When he only miserably sniffed at her proffered hand and lowered his scarred head instead, she slipped the collar off of him. “Run,” she whispered. But the dog only scooted away from her, his keening growing louder.

Mary’s heart bled a little for the poor mite, so abused he couldn’t even recognize kindness anymore. But she didn’t have time to save him or the other dogs in their cramped plastic crates. She did however take note of the extra-large crate as she picked up the razor and gun again. Remembered that John had been attacked by a bull mastiff and that particular crate looked large enough to house a pony.

She made a mental note to make sure someone came for the animals as well, when this was over. She also hoped no one had hurt Gladstone. She took a cursory look through the crates’ gates but only saw pit bulls, no Alsatians. There wasn’t time to look further.

Razor in one hand, gun in the other, she strode out of the garage, looking like a horror movie trope. The Jilted Bride on a rampage, perhaps. 

She reached the house and found the door wide open. She held the razor tight against her hip and lifted the gun, pointing it here, there and everywhere.

Every light downstairs was blazing. She could hear people moving about upstairs. Quiet as a cat, she slipped into the lounge.

And nearly gave Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Violet a coronary.

“Mary, I do sincerely wish you’d stop pointing guns at me,” Sherlock had nearly dropped Mrs. Hudson in his shock when he saw a bloody Mary gliding into the lounge, armed to the hilt.

“Mary, dear, are you alright?” Mrs. Hudson quavered as Mary quickly lowered her gun, a guilty expression on her blood-flecked face. “You’re covered in… um, _red_.”

But Violet Smith burst out, “Good God, Mary, who did you kill _now_?”

“Bad people,” Mary snapped. “Very bad people.”

“What?” Mrs. Hudson squeaked.

“Perhaps we could continue this enlightening discussion _outside_ ,” Sherlock seethed.

_Women_.  

There was a creak of approaching footsteps. Mary spun and pointed her gun. Violet lifted hers  as well. Mrs. Hudson buried her face into Sherlock’s wet shirt and tightened her grip around his neck.

Sherlock just let loose a gusty, exasperated breath. “It’s just Wiggins.”

Sure enough, a second later, Wiggins popped into the lounge.

Carrying a petrified Evie Payne-Ellis, wearing only a bra, knickers and John Watson’s cardigan.

Seeing two guns trained on him, Wiggins yelped, “Fuck me!”

“Not my type,” Sherlock droned.

“Evie?” Violet ventured, lowering her gun. “Evie Payne-Ellis?”

The girl nodded frantically, clinging to Wiggins, “Please don’t hurt me.” 

Observing the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles and how her hair had been shorn like a sheep, Sherlock hissed at Wiggins, “Why are earth did you bring her back in _here_ , you idiot?”

“I panicked. I got turned around. This house is a bloody _maze_!”

_And the Minotaur is still fucking upstairs_ Violet Hunter thought desperately but Violet Smith said briskly “Everyone, please, enough squabbling. We need to go.”

But upon seeing the jumper Evie wore, Mary burst out, “Where’s John?”  

“Downstairs, still in the darkroom,” Wiggins explained. “His ankle, it gave out, he couldn’t make it up the stairs. He told me,” he quailed underneath both Sherlock and Mary’s murderous glares. Even Violet Smith looked like she could wring his neck with her bare hands at that particular moment. “He told me to go on without him!” he burst out defensively. “He’s got his gun. He said he’d be fine and to get the girl out of here.”

“Violet,” Sherlock put Mrs. Hudson down. “Go help John. Mary, go to the boathouse and take care of Moriart-”

“But Sherl-” Mary started to protest.

Sherlock ignored her. “Violet, go upstairs and collect Edward Rucastle. Wiggins, you take Mrs. Hudson and Miss Ellis-Payne out of here. I’ll fetch John.”

“Sherlock, it’s not Moriarty in the boathouse,” Violet cried out. “It’s the Earl of Winchester!”

Sherlock lurched backwards, as if Violet had actually punched him in the gut. “What?”

“He orchestrated this whole affair,” Violet told him. “All of it. The Earl was behind all of this. I barely got away from him. Bashed him in the head with John’s cane and ran.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Violet admitted breathlessly.

Without another word, Sherlock stormed out of the lounge, back towards the pool, heading back towards the boathouse.

“Sherlock!” Violet yelled after him, “Don’t! Come back!”

“Don’t? Don’t what?” Mrs. Hudson dripped all over the Rucastles’ nice wood floors.

“Earl, what Earl?” Mary shook her head. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Violet said darkly, debating on what to do next as there were four pairs of eyes trained on her, silently electing her the new leader since the Great Detective unexpectedly took his leave of them.

Violet’s mind reeled, taking stock which enemies were still left standing. Rucastle. Mrs. Toller.

Well, and possibly Tristan Holloway, provided she wasn’t so stoned she couldn’t leave her bed.

“Right,” she said crisply, as if she was instructing her subordinates back at Carruthers Brokerage Firm. “Mary, go fetch John. Mr. Wiggins, please get Mrs. Hudson and the girl out of here immediately. Do not wait for us. We’ll catch up with you at the police station. I’ll get the boy and the evidence Sherlock collected to prove Rucastle was poisoning me. Mrs. Hudson?  You can walk, yes?”

“Oh, yes, I think so,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice wavered but she stood unaided.

Violet gave her a nod and pushed her slightly towards Wiggins. “Off you go then,” her voice was kind, but her eyes were as feral as a hungry cat’s stalking a tasty looking mouse.  

“I’ll cover you until we reach the hallway where the cellar is,” Mary held up her gun. “Come along,” she held out the straight razor towards Mrs. Hudson. “Would you like this? In case we run into trouble?”

“No, I’m quite fine, thank you,” Mrs. Hudson turned slightly green when she saw the blood drying on the razor. “You said you killed someone, dearie?” 

“Yes, but they were very bad,” Mary cooed reassuringly, patting the Not-the-Housekeeper on the shoulder as she escorted Wiggins, Evie and Mrs. Hudson out of the lounge.

Violet only followed them for a bit until they reached the staircase. Then, lightly, she ran up the stairs as silently as possible.

The wood felt cool on her bare feet as she made her way down the hallway. The main lights in the hall were off, but soft light glowed from a room at the end of the hallway. Edward’s room.

Violet shut doors quietly as she tiptoed down the hall. She certainly didn’t look like a federal agent, wearing a ball gown, barefoot and her hair hanging down well past her shoulder blades in a riot of curls. But every move she made was born of hours of training and even more hours in the field. She constantly checked her blind spots, the safety of the gun was off and pointed forward, finger on trigger. She was well prepared to use her weapon if necessary.

Adrenaline flooded her body. Her dress rustled slightly as she slowly made her way down the hall. She didn’t like it that she didn’t know where Rucastle or Mrs. Toller were.

She also didn’t like it that Sherlock took off after the Earl on his own, but it couldn’t be helped.

She had to get that boy out of his house of horrors. Especially now, especially knowing that Edward had been left alone with that _monster_ , that defiler of innocence.

Edward’s door creaked open. As if on cue, the little ginger haired boy walked out. His dead black eyes fixed on her. His mouth was turned down into a frown. He wore a black t-shirt, jeans and Spiderman trainers.

“Edward,” Violet Smith lowered her gun and beckoned to him with a free hand. “Please. You must come with me now. Everything is going to be alright. No one will ever hurt you or your mummy again, I promise.”

Edward’s door swung open wider. Rucastle entered the hallway and stood behind his son. He had washed his face and changed his clothes. He now wore a black golf shirt and khakis trousers. The clothes had to have been specially tailored for his height and bulk.

Violet raised the gun again, pointed it at Rucastle’s head. “It’s over,” she informed him. “There are warrants for your arrest. The police are on their way. Sherlock and John got away. It’s only a matter of time now. Let the boy go,” she held her hand out towards Edward. “I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make sure he gets the help he needs. The Earl is a bastard who preys on young boys. I will personally make sure he gets the proper care and therapy he requires to get past that. No one will hurt him on my watch, I swear to God. Just let him go.”

Rucastle held up the sleek little Berretta he had been hiding, “Never.”

“Don’t make this worse, Jepthro,” Violet shouted. “Don’t do this to your child. I know you love him, don’t make him watch this. Give him to me, _please_. Let me take care of him.”

“Yes,” he put his gigantic hand over Edward’s head. “I love my son. I love him more than you can possibly imagine. I love him so much,” he removed his hand and pointed the gun at Edward’s head. “I’d rather see him dead than give him to you.”

“No, don’t!” Violet’s heart bounced up into her throat. “He’s a little boy, he’s a child, don’t do this to him, please! Just let him go. I beg you, don’t do this to him.”

Rucastle thumbed the safety off. ”No,” his voice was firm. “Let us go. Or he dies.”

“Daddy…” Edward quavered.

That was what did Violet in. “Alright, alright, just put the gun down,” she lowered her Glock.

“You first.”

Violet placed the gun down on the floor and kicked it away from her. She held her hands out to show she was no longer armed.

Rucastle smirked. “Women, always so sentimental and foolish when children are involved,” he took the gun away from Edward’s head.

Then he handed it to the boy. He held the barrel, offering the butt of the gun to him, while saying, “Hold it like I showed you, son.” 

 “What,” Violet said flatly as the six-year-old trained the gun on her like a professional assassin.

“Can I shoot her now, Daddy?” the boy asked eagerly.

“ _You little shit_ ,” Violet Hunter spat out.  


	28. My Persephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just then, the front door opened. Violet shook her hair out of her face to see who stood there. When she did, she took a deep breath and used the last weapon she had left.
> 
> “SHERLOCK...” 
> 
> Triggers for violence, animal abuse and just general not-goodness... 
> 
> Happy Sunday :^)

Chapter Twenty-eight: My Persephone

11 August 2015  
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ residence  
Tuesday evening   
9:05 PM

The walk from his car to the front door of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ was not a long one.

Even so, he took his time, looking left to right, making sure no nosy neighbors were up and about, looking out windows or taking their dogs out for a late night stroll. It was imperative there were no witnesses.

Unlike the assassin sent to the Lestrades’, this hired gun knew who his target was and who her sons were. This was a high risk hit and it wouldn’t do to be caught. He had thoroughly done his research. He knew there would be high surveillance around this pretty red brick house, but he had also been told the agents assigned to this house would be called to a fake emergency. He also didn’t bank on that information. He had followed-up and been reassured that yes, those agents were no longer at the Holmes’ residence.  He had also followed-up with the MI-6 mole and confirmed that yes the video surveillance around the Holmes’ residence would be disabled.

So it was only natural that his bowels turned into water when he raised his hand to ring the doorbell and he heard Mycroft Holmes drawling laconically, “Did you honestly believe the only surveillance we had on my parents’ home was video? And that a fake emergency would remove all the agents from this area? Are you really that daft?”

He turned around and saw Mycroft standing in the pavement, smartly dressed in a three piece suit, leaning on that damnable umbrella of his.

Then he heard an unmistakable click of a gun’s safety being switched off. He closed his eyes.

“On your knees, hands on head,” Anthea quietly ordered the would-be assassin.

There was no trace of the texting PA here. Instead of her usual business jacket and skirt combination, she wore the female-equivalent of the MI-6 field uniform, complete with the black beret. Her straight hair was scraped back in an uncompromising bun.

HRMSS Agent Lucas materialized from out the shadows. He  handcuffed the assassin, then threw a black bag over his head.Disspassionately, Mycroft and Anthea watched Lucas haul the assassin away.

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sipped tea and watched the telly, completely oblivious. 

Once the agents had taken the assassin away, Mycroft’s shoulders slumped and he pressed his free hand to his ribs. He leaned on his umbrella because he needed to, not for the usual dramatic effect. He wiped sweat off his face.

Anthea immediately holstered her gun. She hurried to Mycroft’s side. Other than Mycroft’s private physicians, only she and Mitton knew how badly he had been injured in the car wreck outside the Holmes’ country estates.

He leaned on her as she put his arm over her narrow shoulders. “Let me take you home,” she insisted. “You have no business being out and about.”

He shook his head. “Take me back to headquarters,” he handed her his umbrella then dug into his trousers for his mobile.

“But-”

“That’s an order,” he told her wearily as he texted Sherlock to let him know their parents were safe. “Also, I need an update on the Lestrades.”

“Safe,” she told him as she helped him limp towards his waiting car. “Dr. Lestrade is uninjured but they’re keeping her overnight for observation because of the shock combined with her pregnancy. DI Lestrade has a concussion, but no other life-threatening injuries.”

“And their assailant?”

“Intercepted by our people after the medics in the ambulance confirmed he was going to live,” Anthea said with a wry smile. “Dr. Lestrade’s a better shot than one would assume.”

Mycroft sniffed, “Would have been better if she had just killed him. Saved us paperwork.”

Anthea slipped out from underneath Mycroft’s arm and opened the car door for him. Mycroft paused, gripping the open car door for support. “I’m fine, don’t fuss,” he snapped at Anthea even though his face had turned grey from the exertion.

“Our agents are en route to the Copper Beaches,” she told him, taking a step back. “Police as well, including an up-and-comer from Lestrade’s division. A Sergeant Alexis MacDonald? She’s actually quite competent.”  

“Hm, keep her on the short list for a possible recruit then,” Mycroft hummed thoughtfully as he eased himself into the idling car. “God only knows my brother is running out of guardian angels.”

Anthea bent down, “Sir, I must insist you go home. We can handle things from here.”

“And I must ignore your advice although I appreciate the spirit in which it was given,” Mycroft gave Anthea a thin smile. “Go to the hospital and keep an eye on the Lestrades, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she stepped away from the vehicle and closed the door.

Once in the back seat, Mycroft pressed the button so the black privacy screen dividing the front and the back of the town car rolled up. Alone, he lowered his defenses and pressed his shaking fingertips to his forehead. He realized what a close call they had and that he was getting too old for this kind of life.

He didn’t bother repressing the groan as he pulled his mobile out of his trouser pocket.  

Sherlock hadn’t responded to his text yet.

He ground his teeth together as he thought _Agent Hunter, you best keep your word. Make sure my brother stays alive._

**

11 August 2015  
The Copper Beaches  
Tuesday evening   
9:26

Once their backs were to her, Mary darted down the hallway that led to the cellar door. The map of the house Edward had drawn for Sherlock clearly showed that Rucastle kept his “muses” in the basement. Recalling how Violet described the darkroom in the London house that was turned into a kill room, she came to same conclusion Sherlock and Violet had. Evie had been stashed in the basement.

Obvious, really.

The cellar door gaped open. Mary paused at the threshold. She wasn’t sure if she should call down or not.

She toed the door open a bit wider and slipped through, wincing as the wooden step behind her foot creaked slightly. When Mrs. Hudson declined the straight razor, Evie had whispered asking if she could have it. Mary doubted the girl could actually kill anyone with it, much less nick an oncoming attacker. But if holding a weapon helped her stay calm, by all means, let her have it.

So Mary only had the silver pistol she had taken from Gang He, but in her experienced hands, that was  all she needed.

She crept down the stairs, every hair on her body on end. Finally, she decided to risk it. “John?” she called out. “John, are you down here? Are you OK?”

“He’s fine,” Mrs. Toller called out. Mary froze.

“Mary,” John sounded quite calm. “Go fetch Sherlock, OK? Everything is fine. Just go get him, OK? He needs to see something down here.”

Her belly flopped over. Mary gripped the barrel of the gun tightly and continued creeping down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to her left, knowing the vision she would be presenting to her husband. She knew she must look terrifying.

Hopefully Mrs. Toller would be terrified as well.

Nothing prepared her however for seeing a whey-faced John on his knees with Mrs. Toller holding a gun to his head. His upper arm dripped with the slow bleed of burst capillaries. His shirt sleeve was completely soaked through. His wrists were encircled with handcuffs.

Her throat worked as John’s blue eyes widened when he saw her, really saw her. As he took in the sight of his blood-spattered wife, his mouth dropped open a little but he stayed silent.

“Should have gotten the detective, Mrs. Watson,” Mrs. Toller informed the assassin.

“You should really stop bathing in _White Diamonds_ perfume,” Mary riposted, her silver pistol trained on Mrs. Toller’s forehead. “You really do smell like an unwashed armpit.” 

“If you come with me, he lives,” Mrs. Toller lifted her other hand and pointed John’s gun at Mary.

“Mary, just…” John licked his lips. “Go. Please. Go get Sherlock. I’ll be fine. They’re not interested in me. No one’s ever interested in me. Just go find Sherlock, OK? Go find Sherlock and go back to London, ahhh,” John winced as Mrs. Toller dug the barrel of the gun painfully into the back of John’s head. “Everything will be fine in the morning,” he gasped out, screwing his eyes tightly shut.

“Oh, apologies, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Toller crooned. “That’s not entirely accurate. It is true no one really is interested in you and the only people who would be affected by your death would be Sherlock and Mrs. Watson. But we simply cannot permit your wife to return to London.”

“She doesn’t know anything, I told you,” John burst out angrily. “She’s a nurse. She works the A&E at St. Barts. She’s a homemaker, she’s a mother, she’s…” his eyes opened and he looked helplessly at Mary. “She’s my wife. She’s not involved in any of this. She doesn’t work with me and Sherlock. Just let her go, she won’t say anything, will you, love?”

_Love…_ at that word, Mary felt her entire being, body, heart, soul, infused with a warmth and a light she had never felt before. Not this intensely.

After everything, after all the lies, after all the mistakes and miscalculations, after trying to murder his best friend to protect her best interests (which was her marriage and her pregnancy), John was still trying to protect her. Still trying to save her life…

_The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future... are my privilege…_

She lowered her gun.

“Mary,” John said sharply. “Mary, what are you doing?”

She knew what she was doing.

The world needed fewer  people like her. More people like John.

“John, it’s alright,” she said simply as she carefully put the pistol down on the floor. “It’s alright.”

“Mary, stop this, stop this _right now_.” John commanded as Mrs. Toller smirked behind him.

“John, it’s alright,” Mary repeated herself, ignoring him.

Mrs. Toller tucked John’s gun in the waistband of her ugly denim skirt. She dug into the pockets and produced another pair of handcuffs. She tossed them on the floor. “Put them on so you match your hubby,” her eyes glowed with maniac delight. 

“Mary,” John sounded furious now. “ _Stop this_.”

Tight-lipped, Mary continued to ignore John and clicked the metal bracelets around her slender wrists. She held her hands up, showing Mrs. Toller she had properly cuffed herself.

“Good girl,” Mrs. Toller smiled as she took the gun away from John and pointed it at Mary. “Come along now… AGRA.”

John struggled to get to his feet. “You… _bitch_ ,” but his bad ankle crumpled underneath him.

Mrs. Toller pivoted and cracked John across the temple with her gun. Not enough to render him unconscious, but enough to hurt. He toppled over to his side.

“No, don’t, leave him alone,” Mary cried out.

Mrs. Toller turned the gun on Mary. “Upstairs, _now_ ,” she seethed as she bent down to pick up the little silver pistol.

Mary started walking backwards down the hallway, back towards the stairs. “John,” she called out desperately, hating how fury, powerlessness and anguish contorted his face. “John, I love you, it will be alright. It will be alright in the morning.”

“Move it,” Mrs. Toller grabbed Mary by the shoulder, jerked her around with more force than necessary. She poked Mary in the back with the muzzle of the gun and marched her down the hallway and up the stairs.

John didn’t waste time crying out Mary’s name or uttering vicious oaths as to what he was going to do to Mrs. Toller when he got his hands on her. He lay flat on his back and started twisting like a cortortionist. More blood oozed out of his injured arm and his damaged ankle screamed in agony. His head throbbed where Mrs. Toller had clocked him but it couldn’t be helped. He still had his wits about him, thank God, although he didn’t know for how much longer. Grimly, he ordered himself to push through the pain. Told himself to get his bloody mobile out of his jeans pocket. A phone call may be the only chance Mary had now.

Meanwhile Mrs. Toller had brought Mary to the foyer just as Rucastle, Edward and Violet entered the room. Mary immediately perceived Violet’s hands were tied behind her back but her mouth dropped into a perfect “O” when she saw it was the little boy pointing the gun at Violet.

“Don’t ask,” Violet muttered, apparently embarrassed she had been bested by a six year old.

“Where are Holmes and Watson?” Rucastle barked at Mrs. Toller.

“Holmes, no idea,” Mrs. Toller said. “Watson is downstairs. He’s not going anywhere.”

“What do you mean _no idea_?” Rucastle bawled out. Then he narrowed his piggy eyes at Mary and Violet. “Where is he?” he struggled to keep his voice under control.

Mary shrugged. Violet drawled in her natural, adenoidal Midwestern twang, “No idea.”

Rucastle stuck his florid face right into hers. “WHERE IS HE?”

Violet instinctively squeezed her eyes shut but steeled herself not to flinch as he screamed. She endured his spit flying in her face. In a wooden voice, she said “It’s over, Rucastle.” She opened her eyes and shook her head. “I wasn’t bluffing upstairs. There’s an arrest warrant for all three of you. They’re on their way. Oh, and your boss, the fried guy in the boathouse? The one I beat the shit out of a few moments ago?” Rucastle’s eyes nearly fell right out of his head when Violet said that. As he looked her up and down, trying to suss out how a slender female bested someone like the Earl, Violet added “He’s not going to lift a finger to help you. He’s going to save his own ass first.”

“Daddy, can I please shoot her?” Edward whined. “She’s so mean and horrid. I hate her.”

“Shush, Daddy’s thinking,” Rucastle patted Edward on the top of his head. He turned back towards Mrs. Toller. “What about my latest prototype? Is she secure?”

Mary and Violet watched with satisfaction as the color leached out of Mrs. Toller’s face. “I… I didn’t think to check,” she admitted, her hand on her chest. “The darkroom door was closed when I found Dr. Watson, so I assumed…” she bit her lip as she realized just how badly she had screwed up.

“You _assumed_...you bloody _assumed_?” Rucastle ran his fingers through his hair. “What about the old woman? Where’s Holmes’ landlady? Where is your idiot son?”

_Well, there’s one mystery solved_ , Violet thought detachedly. _Finally_.

“They’re not back by the pool?” Mrs. Toller whispered.

“Oh, Toller is,” Violet contributed, making her voice bright and helpful. “Unconscious. At least he was when I last saw him.”

Toller was still unconscious when Sherlock had returned to the deck. Without breaking his long-legged stride, he scooped up the gun, checked the sights, racked it and continued on his journey down to the boathouse.

He shrugged off his wet jacket, but the rest of his clothes clung to his body like a second skin. His nice shoes were undoubtedly ruined by his dive into the infinity pool to save Mrs. Hudson.

He didn’t care.

Reason, logic, deduction, all of it had been wiped away when Violet told him who was in the boathouse. The game didn’t even matter anymore.

His greatest desire now was to finish what he had started thirty-one years ago. 

He felt his mobile vibrate in his trouser pocket. He ignored it, knowing it was Mycroft.

He could not risk receiving bad news from Mycroft, not now… especially if Molly was…

_Stop it. Focus._

He pushed his wet hair off his forehead as he stood on top of the landing, looking down at the boathouse. He started down on the footpath when he saw the door swing open and two men staggering out as if they were drunk, trying to support each other, hobbling towards the smart little speedboat tethered to the end of the dock.

His mobile vibrated again. Still, he ignored it.

He surveyed the scene before him, making his deductions. Was he close enough? Was there enough time to get closer? Was the Earl armed? What about the man with him?

Sherlock pursed his lips, frustration clawing him.  If he had nerves of steel like John or had experience killing for profit like Mary, along with a proper sniper’s rifle complete with a scope, he knew could have made the shot. He still might have made the shot with only the handgun if it had been any daylight left. But it was full dark now. The only light was from the house, the security lights by the boathouse and the moon. _So be it,_ he decided as he started to jog down the footpath. _Closer it is_.

Maybe it would be more gratifying to see his face as the bullet entered his forehead. Sherlock would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt relief when Charles Augustus Magnussen toppled over backwards after Sherlock fired that gun. With Magnussen dead, Mary could stay Mary and therefore stay with John and they could raise their child together, once they found  Marissa, naturally.

And his brother’s dirty secrets could stay buried.

_One more_ , Sherlock thought as his heart raced, _One last secret to bury for Mycroft. Then he’ll be free of the past, I’ll be free of Mycroft and I can finally delete_ everything.  

His mobile vibrated again.

This time he stopped in his tracks. This vibration was different. A pulse, a beat of stillness, then two pulses in quick succession, the special vibration he had created for…

_“_ John, _”_ Sherlock stopped running and started backpedalling, fumbling into his pocket. He hit the Answer button on the Smartphone’s screen. “You are calling at the most inopportune time, John,” he snarled, eyes still fixed on the Earl and his companion. Watched with impotent rage as the villains managed to get into the speedboat.

“Sherlock,” John gasped. Sherlock snapped out of his fury, hearing the pain in John’s voice.

He didn’t waste any more time. “Where are you?” he demanded, turning his back on the Earl, on the opportunity for revenge.

From the boat, the Earl watched the tall, dark figure retreat towards the house.

“You alright?” his companion asked, the words coming out slowly. He had gotten a fat lip from falling on his face after Violet smashed down on his carotid artery with John’s cane.

The Earl rubbed the burned half of his face. “I should have killed him when I had the chance, back when he was small and naive,” he snarled. “I knew, even back then, I knew he was dangerous.” He snorted. “And they call me the monster, me the freak.” He scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his ruined hand. “Get us out of here at once. This place is going to be crawling with cops and MI-6 before we know it.”

The Black Lotus gangster nodded eagerly. He wished to be gone as well. He finished untying the boat from the dock. Soon they were puttering away from The Copper Beaches.

Meanwhile, when returning to the pool and deck, Sherlock noted that Toller now was no longer lying on the deck and someone had turned the lights off again in the house. He decided it would be best if he kept the gun, in case he was ambushed.

As quickly and quietly as he could, he made his way through the house, relying on his memory to guide him back to the cellar door, rather than actually seeing. He strained his ears, listening for anything that sounded out of the ordinary. He also paid close attention to the smells in everything room he encountered, prepared to attack if he smelled _White Diamonds_ perfume.

He made it to the cellar door unmolested. He threw the door open and saw John at the bottom of the stairs, arm coated with blood, blood trickling down from a ragged cut on his temple and his hands shackled together.

“Oh, thank God,” John moaned, bowing his head.

“Ah, splendid. You’re not dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” John unknowingly quoted Violet Hunter. 

“You are, however, an absolute _idiot_ , John Watson,” Sherlock snapped while running down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I know,” John tried to get up on wobbling legs. “Listen, Sherl-”

“Did I not make it perfectly clear that you would be next to useless in a situation like this?” Sherlock wished he hadn’t tossed his coat away. He had a perfectly good pen tucked away in the inside pocket. Then he remembered John’s habit of taking notes and asked “Do you have your little notepad and pen on you?”

“Yeah, back pocket and I wasn’t _useless_ ,” John scowled as Sherlock helped him to his feet. “The poor girl was malnourished, dehydrated and about to go into shock. If I hadn’t been there to treat her, I don’t kno- OI!” John yelped as Sherlock jammed his hand into John’s back jeans pocket. He glared daggers at Sherlock as he hopped on his good leg while gripping the banister for support. “Little warning next time?”

“John, I’m flattered you think there’ll be a next time.”

“I’M NOT GAY.”

Sherlock merely sniffed and started to take the pen apart in order to make a handcuff key. “You are still an idiot for not listening to me. Even Mary and Violet had agreed with me, but you insisted on playing the Army medic, didn’t you? You could have gotten murdered in the inane name of duty when any when one of us could have helped the victim. The last thing I ever want to do is to have to explain to Mary you died because you acted like an imbecile. And more importantly, you’re no use to me dead and buried.”

“Sherlock,” John growled. “About Mary…” 

As usual, Sherlock rolled right over his words: “Basic first aid would have been sufficient until we removed the girl from this hellish environment. Because of your misguided sentimental loyalty towards us, you were being absolutely pigheaded by refusing to let us handle the situation on our own.” He finished making the key and grabbed John’s wrists so he could unlock the cuffs. “However, the only thing you really accomplished was getting yourself into this ridiculous predicament, so the next time I tell you not to be a hero, I expect you to liste-”  

“SHERLOCK,” John yelled. “I GET it. I fucked up and I’m _sorry_ but can you give me the lecture later? _They took Mary_. And I don’t know where Violet is.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock inhaled sharply as the handcuffs sprang open. “Next time, start with the important information, John.”

“As soon as my leg is better, I am kicking you so hard your great-grandchildren will feel it.”

Sherlock took the gun out of the waistband of his trousers. “I think this would be better in your hands than mine,” he handed the gun to John.

“Lucky I’m not using it on you,” John muttered.

“No, that’s your wife’s division.”

“Sherlock, I am warning you…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s waist as John sighed and put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I know, I know, its poor manners to mock your wife for shooting me. Although I do think it was rather rude she shot me in the first place.”

“Next time, knock before you just go barging in on an assassination attempt then,” John grunted as Sherlock helped him hobble up the stairs.

Even though it felt like an eternity had passed, it really didn’t take that long for Sherlock to get John out of the cellar. Sherlock peered around the doorway, his brows crinkled in thought. “They’re outside,” he muttered. “John? Can you manage? Without crutches or a cane?”

John tested his poor ankle, tried to put weight on it, sucked in a sharp breath of pain and shook his head no. “Go,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

“Isn’t that how you got into the predicament in the cellar?”  

“No,” John hopped after Sherlock as they got out of the doorway. He leaned on the wall and said, “I lied to Wiggins. Told him I’d catch up when I realized there was no way in hell I could keep up with him. You, I can catch up with. No stairs to contend with.”

Sherlock nodded and darted off. John flicked the safety off and crept along the wall, weirdly reminded of the first time he attempted roller-skating as a child. How he had clung to the wall like a spider, so afraid of falling.

His freshly re-injured arm left smudges of blood as he gimped after Sherlock.

As a cold sweat coated his face, his heart beat out a tattoo against his chest… _Mary… Mary, Mary, Mary…_

Mary stood outside next to Violet. An infuriated Rucastle had herded everyone outside when he realized how badly Mrs. Toller had mucked things up. They were outdoors just in time to see a pearly white SUV whizz past them, the back tyres spitting gravel at them. There was a flash of Evie Payne-Ellis’ terrified face in the passenger window as the vehicle passed them by.

Rucastle howled like a creature possessed. He actually grabbed at his hair and tried to run after them. Mrs. Hudson, seeing him charging them like a mad bull, ducked down in the back seat. But Wiggins stomped on the gas pedal and they were off like a shot, zooming down the private driveway, heading towards the room, heading towards freedom.

Mary and Violet exchanged quick, triumphant glances, but their victory was short-lived. While Sherlock had been racing down the hallway towards the cellar door, Mrs. Toller asked Rucastle “What do we do now? That one,” she pointed John’s gun at Violet, “Said the police are on their way. Sherlock’s on the prowl and he’s worse’n a mad dog. What are we going to do?”

“We’re getting out of here,” Rucastle declared. “Immediately, and give me that,” he gestured with his huge hand for John’s gun.

“What about my son?” Mrs. Toller demanded as she handed him John’s Army Browning. Unfortunately, she still had the small silver pistol. A dainty weapon, almost elegant, really. Violet and Mary glanced at each other nervously as Mrs. Toller waved it negligently at them while screaming, “We can’t just leave Artie here!” 

“Your son’s incompetence is the reason why we’re in this fix!” Rucastle bellowed. “The one _fucking_ day I needed him to stay sober.” Rucastle dug in his trouser pockets, produced car keys and tossed them at Mrs. Toller. “Take the American, get rid of her and then get yourself and Edward to the airfield as quickly as possible. Even if the Earl goes back on his word, I still have my private plane there. Go to Paris and wait for us there.”

“Daddy, I want to stay with you,” the boy’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

“No, Eddie, I need you to go with Mrs. Toller now, Daddy has a project he needs to finish,” he took the Berretta from his child, stuffed this weapon into the back of his trousers then ran his gigantic hand over Edward’s head. “I’ll see you in Paris and then, Argentina, won’t you like that? Won’t that be nice?”

“What about Mummy?” he asked in a hushed voice, looking at the house.

“Why, she’ll join us when she wakes up, of course,” he lied to the boy with a jolly voice. He hugged the boy tightly and kissed him as he put him in the back seat of an expensive Audi. His piggy eyes gleamed with tears as Edward started to cry. Rucastle dashed the tears away then in a stringent voice, he told Mrs. Toller, “Get a move-on, _now_. And if you allow anything to happen to my son, I will kill you, do you understand?” 

“Of course I understand, but what about you? How will you get away? Especially if she,” Mrs. Toller pointed the pistol straight at Violet’s head. “Is telling the truth and the coppers really are on their way?”

Then there was a sound of a tree branch snapping. Everyone jumped and turned to the sound. Everyone expected Sherlock, not knowing he was back inside of the house, down in the cellar, giving John a through scolding.

It was Toller.

“What happened to your cheek?” Mrs. Toller asked when he got closer.

In the glow of the security lights, a livid bruise stood out on Toller’s cheek along with a puffy lump. In a thick voice, he slurred, “’E shhtabbed me!”

“Come again?” Mrs. Toller wrinkled her nose in confusion.

“’Olmes. Shhhtabbed me. With uh needle.”

“You are wasting time!” Rucastle shrieked. “You,” he glared at Toller. “Earn your keep. Do something right for a change and put the American in the boot.”

“Oo’s the ‘Merican?”

“Miss Smith,” Mrs. Toller said distastefully. “Try to keep up, Artie.”

Violet rolled her eyes. As Toller stumbled towards her though, she started backing away, her eyes slits, her pretty mouth turned down in an ugly snarl. She winced as she walked barefoot over the pea gravel. But her throat had dried up with fear. Her hands and fingertips had gone absolutely numb. An ache radiated from deep within her bones. Her stomach ached, lingering effects, she assumed from Rucastle’s attempts to poison her.

After her altercation with the Earl and running after Sherlock, Violet didn’t know if she physically had anything left within her to fight back.

Mary, meanwhile, since her hands were shackled in front of her, kept waiting for an opportunity to lunge for someone’s weapon. At first, she had targeted the boy, but decided against it. Something in his dead, black eyes frightened her. He didn’t act like a child, not really. Not until he was being separated from his father.

But just as Toller advanced towards Violet, Rucastle moved far faster than she could have imagined a man his size could and grabbed her tightly by her upper arm. He started hauling her away, pushing the muzzle of John’s gun underneath her chin. Over his shoulder he yelled at the Tollers, “GO,” as he forced Mary back towards the garage.

Toller tried to grab at Violet. Desperately she snapped her leg back to execute a front-kick, a move she had done hundreds, thousands of times. Hours of practice in the gym at kickboxing classes and hours of practical use in the field and while she had been on the run.

To her horror, she lost her balance. Her legs got hopelessly tangled in the layers and layers of gauze that made up her skirt. She landed hard on her hip and elbow, cursing as sharp, needling pain radiated through her. Sensing rather than seeing Toller coming for her, she thrust her leg out again, her heel connecting with his gut. But her kick didn’t have its usual power behind it and he grabbed her ankle and dragged her closer. Violet yelped while she was dragged across the gravel driveway before Toller rolled her over to her belly, then jerked her to her feet by her bound wrists. He grabbed her around her waist while Violet kicked out wildly while trying to slam her head against Toller’s.

Just then, the front door opened. Violet shook her hair out of her face to see who stood there. When she did, she took a deep breath and used the last weapon she had left.

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

Mrs. Toller threw the boot open then opened fire on the house, emptying all six rounds. Sherlock ducked back inside the house. Toller dumped Violet in the boot and slammed it shut. Part of her skirt hung outside the boot. Mrs. Toller threw the silver pistol away and jumped into the driver’s seat just as Toller clambered into the passenger seat.

The second the shooting stopped, Sherlock darted out of the house again and sprinted towards the car. He nearly made it too, his fingers scraped against the door handle as the Audi peeled away. The only thing he could do was memorize the make, model and plate numbers as it disappeared down the darkened drive.

“Mary…” he said faintly, looking around. Then up at the garage, which was still illuminated.

“Right,” he said to himself, pulling out his mobile, skimming Mycroft’s text regarding Molly and his mother being safe. Then he sent both Mycroft and Alex MacDonald a text describing the Tollers’ getaway car.

Lastly, he scrolled through his screen until he came across an app that was a picture of a dainty purple flower. He pressed it and when a pop-up window opened asking him to Activate, he pressed the big glowing green button that said Yes.

“Sherlock?” John called from inside the house.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the garage then rushed back inside the house.

John had nearly made it to the front door, but had flattened himself against the wall when he heard the shooting. He lowered Toller’s gun when he saw Sherlock jogging towards him. “What’s happening, what’s going on? The girls, Mary, where are they?”

“Rucastle took Mary. He took her to the garage,” Sherlock pulled John away from the wall and started to help him walk towards the front door.

“What about Violet?” John grimaced but forced himself to keep going forward, keeping up with Sherlock even though his ankle felt like it had been dipped in acid and was going to start disintegrating any minute now. His arm and head didn’t feel the best either.

“Oh she’s fine,” Sherlock said breezily. “Now, listen closely, John. This is what we’re going to do…”

While the Tollers made their escape and Sherlock and John made their plans, Rucastle shoved Mary into the garage. She stumbled, but stayed upright. The sharp, almost metallic scent of blood accompanied with dog excrement assaulted her nose. Averting her eyes from the bodies of the men she had killed only a short time ago, she staggered away from Rucastle. The dogs started barking again, high, agitated yips as the gruesome, foul man smiled at her.

Rucastle ignored them. “Well, here we are again, Mrs. Watson,” he laughed over the din of the dogs’ barking. Then he tut-tutted over her dress. “You’ve spoilt your frock,” he crooned, striding up to Mary. Mary kept backing up until she ran into the wall of the make-shift arena. The poor bait dog still cowered in the corner, crying and whining.

“No matter,” he told her, towering over her now. “I’ll make you new ones. I’ll give you anything you want. You see, I can give you what Holmes and Watson can’t, _Anya_.” His big, blowfish-like face was in hers now, close enough for a kiss. “When I was approached to do this little favor for the _Rouge_ , I was reluctant. I know what happens when you get ensnared into their nets. You never really stop paying for the service they provided you. Besides, honestly? Me? Take on The Great Consulting Detective? I’m no genius, at least, not like Holmes. Or Moriarty,” he pursed his lips together as he waited for Mary to react to That Name.

But Mary had years and years of practice concealing her true feelings. She merely clenched her fettered hands into fists and stared steadily back at Rucastle.

Rucastle wetted his lips and put his massive hands on her shoulders. Mary felt like she was the roast goose at Christmas dinner. She tried to shrug him off, but his fingers dug into her flesh. Her eyes watered.

“What I am,” he said, “is better than a genius. I’m an artist. I can’t match wits with someone like him. But my good friend Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper convinced me to help out just this once. Just this one time to take the High and Mighty Sherlock Holmes down a peg or two. And it would be mutually beneficial to me since Toller’s drinking has gotten out of control as of late and, well, he’s gotten sloppy with, errr, well, the disposal of rough drafts, if you catch my drift.”

“You’re mad,” Mary breathed. “You’ve murdered more than just those three girls. You’re all serial killers. The lot of you.”

“NO!” Rucastle roared. “I am an artist! I espouse what is beautiful and pure. I strive to be better than human, someone that deserves to be worshipped like a _god_. I am about _The Work_. The Work is what is necessary and vital and is what keeps me beautiful and pure, despite this,” he clamped a meaty hand over his chest. “Unfortunate vehicle my soul has been placed within in order to walk the earth with mere mortals. The Tollers… the Tollers are barking mad. They’re the kidnapper and the killer. Mrs. Toller took care of my first wife, oh, how she took care of my first wife.” His face darkened. Unexpectedly, his eyes teared up as he whispered, “My Ellie. My lovely Ellie, my perfect bride, my goddess. Oh, I know the rumors, that I murdered my first wife so her cousin could inherit the entire family fortune. But no, Mrs. Watson, I did not murder my first wife,” his smile was positively monstrous. “But Mrs. Toller helped the murderer accomplish the task. Shall I tell you, my darkest secret? The one I swore I’d take to my grave? The identity of the person who really killed Lady Elise Cullen-Culpepper?”

He traced Mary’s blood-flecked cheek with his fat finger. Mary didn’t repress her shudder. 

“Well, now I don’t have to,” his grin expanded. “Now the Tollers can stop blackmailing me. The only thing I’ll need to do is retrieve the toxicology reports I know Mrs. Toller had hidden somewhere in my London house. And to finally get my hands on Ellie’s journals and camera films. The Great Detective found them, didn’t he? I know he’s been prowling around the Copper Beaches, why do you think security was so lax? I wanted him to find Ellie’s things.”

Mary wanted to vomit when she finally realized how badly they had all underestimated this man.

“I wanted him to find Ellie’s things so the Tollers could stop threatening to take them all to the Met so they would re-open Ellie’s case. That was one of the perks of doing this favor for the _Rouge_. They would rid me of the Tollers. They’re going to gaol tonight, my dear Anya. Or do you prefer Mary? Or perhaps even Anzhela?” When Mary didn’t respond, Rucastle continued with his story, the smugness creeping back into his voice. “But, circling back to the Tollers. Once the police get here, I’m going to report the Tollers for kidnapping my son and his tutor. Shame that the tutor will most likely be dead when the coppers catch up with them,” he sighed theatrically. “As for my involvement in the Burned Girls Affair, well, to be a bit crude, I’m ridiculously wealthy. I can afford good lawyers. And we all know Sherlock Holmes loses interest in a case once it’s solved. Your husband said so in his blog. So he won’t be following my trial. He won’t give a tinker’s toot whether or not I’m convicted. He just wants to solve the murders of the Burned Girls and he did. It was the Tollers and I’ll even admit that in open court. All I have to say is I knew it was them but I was afraid for the safety of my son. I was afraid if I went to the police, they’d hurt him or worse.”

He sounded so sure of himself, Mary ached to point out the flaws in his plan. She held her tongue, hoping Sherlock lurked somewhere. Hatching some sort of scheme to get her out of this fix… or did he abandon her to chase after Violet?

She prayed John was safe. 

Realizing he had a literal captive audience, Rucastle beamed as he continued to brag: “So as if that wasn’t enough of a bonus, the Earl told me I would also get another prize. All I had to do was to help hold Mr. Holmes’ attention. Keep him busy. I told Toller to get creative when he disposed of the rough drafts of my projects. Normally, he satisfied his little fiery fetish then dumped them here, in the river. I knew a creative crime scene would get Holmes’ juices flowing. But it was taking too long, far too long. The Met hadn’t called Holmes yet because his DI chum went on his rutting honeymoon. Fortunately, out of the blue, Edward’s nanny up and quit. Got some posh post with the family of a government official,” Rucastle sounded mortally offended. Mary immediately saw Mycroft’s hand and couldn’t believe Rucastle didn’t put two and two together because he said “How convenient that Miss Smith’s CV appeared on my desk. How convenient she and the Great Detective are engaged. Made my job so much easier, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” Mary didn’t dare speak but didn’t dare stay silent either. 

“So, once Miss Smith was in my employment, Mr. Holmes entered my life. And all I needed to do was to distract the Great Detective so they could set up the hits on the women in his life. The _Rouge_ wanted to teach him a lesson, Holmes. They’re still a little bent out of shape that he bested Moriarty and nearly wiped their organization out of existence. My other prize, however, was supposed to be Miss Smith. Those topaz eyes… that mouth… not to mention she very nearly has the perfect figure. She’s almost thin enough to be a model.” Then he snorted with disgust. “Then I found out she wasn’t quite was she seemed to be. An American, _pah_!” His face flushed again, two hot pink spots on his cheeks. “Not to mention that titian hair. I _hate_ red hair,” he ran his hand over his own ginger locks. “If I didn’t look stupid bald-headed, I’d shave this off at once. But I’m getting distracted. I told the Earl I didn’t want the American. He told me it would impact Holmes on a more emotional level if she was murdered, so perhaps… I’d prefer you instead? And once he told me who and what you really are, I said _yes_. You… you are perfect. You are everything I ever wanted. You are even better than my precious Ellie, may she rest in peace.” He breathed in her ear. “And don’t worry about your sham of a marriage. We both know you were just a poor substitute for his true love, his great love. He deserved to go to prison for trying to poison Miss Smith. He deserves to die for loving a freak instead of worshipping you.”

“If this is your plan for winning me over, it’s not working,” Mary’s blue eyes narrowed into slits. 

“No? Oh, my dear girl. Once I tell you everything I’ve been told about The Great Detective, you’ll want to pull the trigger on Dr. Watson yourself. He used you, Watson did. Used you as a plug to stop up the bleeding hole in his heart after Holmes took his nosedive off of Barts. He never loved you. He only… needed you. And now with the detective back, he’s just looking for an excuse to throw you away.” He almost looked sorry for her.

“He’s not gay,” she said through her teeth.

Rucastle’s laugh was a booming, hearty sound. “My dear woman, I work in the fashion industry. I know a pair of poofs when I seethem. It’s not your fault, you were blinded by love,” he ran his thumb over Mary’s cheek. “I want to save you. Save you from all your enemies and from yourself. Your delusion about your marriage,” he pressed his wet, blubbery lips to her forehead. Mary squirmed, tried to escape, but he was so much bigger than she was.

“Get your hands off me!”

He ignored her. Mary realized his intentions towards her were actually far worse than the Chinese gangsters as he pressed himself against her. “There’s a panic room built into this garage. There’s plenty of food and water. All the amenities, though tiny. A loo, a sink, soap, water, the softest towels imaginable, even a change of clothes. You’ll wait there for me, for this to blow over. After the cops leave, after the cops arrest Toller, then I’ll come fetch you. You can be the mother you were always meant to be, not just to my son,” he dug into his back pocket and took out a photograph, “But to _her_ as well.” 

Mary sucked in a breath as her eyesight became blurry. But she kept her voice even. “My daughter died,” she said stoically.

“We both know that’s not true.” He tucked the photo into the bodice of her ruined frock.

Goose-pimples rose on her flesh at his touch as revulsion spread throughout her body. “That could be a photograph of any baby. Doesn’t prove a thing.”

“I’ll get you the proof,” he said quickly. “Then I’ll give you your heart’s desire. I can give you what the good doctor can’t. I will give you your child back. You and I, we were meant for each other. You are warm, you are loving, you are like the spring and summer when the earth is fertile and everything is alive and growing. But you do not fear death and would go down to Tartarus, to hell itself during the winter and feel right at home. You are what I’ve been searching for, what I’ve been trying to create. You are,” he cupped his left hand around Mary’s cheek while he traced her neck with John’s gun with his right, “My Persephone.” 

“Hey.”

Rucastle jerked his head around then grabbed Mary roughly, whirled her around and stuck the gun into her rib cage. Mary winced, but the pain was nothing.

John stood in the doorway. He leaned on the doorjamb, his weight all on his good leg. But the hands pointing Toller’s gun at Rucastle’s head were perfectly steady.

“I want my wife and my gun back, if you please,” John informed Rucastle. “Oh, and my kid too, while we’re at it.”

“Thought you’d be glad to be rid of her? Then you could go back to your boyfriend in 221B?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John said wearily. “That rumor’s so old it qualifies to receive a pension now. And please stop jamming that gun into my wife’s ribs. We both know you’re not going to kill her. Not now, not after you described how you _won_ her.”

“How do you intend to over-power me?” Rucastle sneered, pointing the gun at John now. “You can barely walk?”

“ _Rache!_ ” John shouted, mangling the German.

Gladstone understood though and he burst through the door, snarling, running straight for Rucastle’s arm, for the hand holding the gun. Rucastle pushed Mary away from him and fired off a panicked shot.

While it was a panicked shot, it still hit home. It tore through Gladstone’s shoulder. He yelped, howled, crumpled into a furry heap, keening in pain.

But Mary had quickly taken advantage of the situation. She pulled the Berretta Rucastle had tucked into the back of his khakis trousers. She pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Just a sad little _click_ , indicating an empty chamber.

Rucastle pointed John’s gun at Mary’s chest. “Do you really think I’d give a six year old a loaded gun?” he laughed at her. “It was dark up there. Hard for Miss Smith to see, wasn’t it?”

“And yet,” Sherlock stood up from behind the largest dog carrier. The one Mary thought housed a horse. “All the lights were on in here,” he vaulted on top the carrier, straddling it as if the carrier itself was a horse. He had to shout to be heard over the yapping and howling of frightened and angry dogs. “And yet you failed to observe me slipping in through the back door and hiding behind the dog crates.”

Sherlock waited until Rucastle trained John’s gun on him, instead of Mary.

That was when he leaned forward and opened the door of the carrier he sat upon.

Big Carlo the bull mastiff made a beeline for his abuser.

“ _Mary, run!_ ” John cried, pointing Toller’s gun at the stampeding bull mastiff. Mary darted away just as Rucastle also pointed John’s gun at the raging hound. Before he could pull the trigger, Big Carlo tackled him, snarling and slobbering, recognizing him as the man who withheld food, withheld water, withheld love but gave hits and kicks aplenty. 

It was the second time in his life John had witnessed someone being mauled to death by a dog.

He hoped profoundly there wouldn’t be a third.

“Mary, John, go,” Sherlock shouted as all the dogs’ racket increased. He swung off the carrier like an Olympiad dismounting a pommel horse. Skirting around the shrieking mess that was Rucastle, he ran towards Gladstone. The Alsatian whimpered and cried when Sherlock tried to pick him up. He even nipped at Sherlock’s hand, but he whined as he did so.

“I know, I know,” Sherlock cooed to the dog. “It’s not fun, is it? Being shot.” He gave Gladstone a reassuring pet and managed to get the injured dog into his arms. The dog yelped in pain but didn’t try to  bite Sherlock again.

Mary meanwhile paused at the door to hug John then she helped him hobble away from the gruesome scene occurring in the garage. Sherlock followed on their heels, cuddling Gladstone, closing the door behind him with his toe so Big Carlo couldn’t get out after he had his snack.

Sherlock set Gladstone down on a patch of grass near the house. Mary helped John crouch down so he could examine the dog.

“Can you help him, John?” Anxiety had crept into his voice. His wet shirt was now covered with canine blood.

“I’m no vet, but I’ll do my best,” John grunted. Then he petted Gladstone and whispered. “You’re such a good boy. You’re such a good, brave boy.” Assuming his “doctor mode”, he said “Mary, your sash, I need it.” 

As she unwound the sash from her waist, she asked, “What about Violet? Shouldn’t we go after her? The Tollers are barking mad.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Sherlock stood up as Mary handed John her sash. “I’ll leave Gladstone in your capable hands, John and Mary. I need to finish looking for Lady Elise’s journals and film negatives. Despite what Rucastle,” he crinkled his nose as if someone had made a rude bodily function noise. “Claimed, I had been unable to locate that particular bit of evidence. Plus someone should check on Tristan Holloway. My brother is sending helicopters. The local police along with the mostly competent Sergeant Call Me Alex MacDonald should be here in fifteen minutes. I’ll text to make sure they have a few veterinarians accompany them as well. Someone needs to tend not just Gladstone, but the poor mites up there as well.”

He walked back towards the house, humming.

“He seems really confident Violet is OK,” Mary said nervously as John tried to examine Gladstone under the security lights.

“If Sherlock’s confident Violet’s OK, then she’s probably OK,” John murmured as he gently pressed the red silk sash on the bleeding hole in Gladstone’s shoulder. As he applied pressure to the slow bleed, he crooned “Shhh, Stone, buddy, it’s OK, it’s OK…”

While Sherlock may have felt confident about Violet’s situation, she most certainly did not share his opinion. The gossamer skirts of her gown had gotten caught when Toller slammed the boot shut. She couldn’t do her neat trick of slipping her legs through her arms, putting her cuffed hands in front of her instead of behind her back. She tried twisting around to see if she could kick out a taillight, but it was too dark, too cramped. She couldn’t see and she could barely move. The adrenaline had completely left her body now and panic threatened to give way to hysteria. Her chest hitched as her lungs constricted, threatening to give way to hyperventilating. She couldn’t string together a coherent thought to save her life…

_Stop… take a breath. You’re OK…_

Violet squeezed her eyes tightly shut, inhaled through her nose deeply. She held the breath for a moment then exhaled. The breath she let out was shaky so she inhaled again and repeated the cycle until she could feel her heartbeat slow a little.

She ordered herself to focus, to focus on something that would soothe her, just enough so she could  stave off the fear long enough so she could think…

… _the sun was bright but there was a slight bite in the breeze, a promise of the encroaching winter. But the sun still produced enough warmth to make the day enjoyable. The autumn sky was cerulean with wisps of clouds slowly scudding by. It was a huge, expansive Midwestern sky she could only see when her father got leave from the military and they went to visit Grandma and Grandpa Hunter and all the aunts and uncles and cousins in Indiana._

_She was eight-going-on-nine as she liked to remind everyone and today, her father promised her a special treat. Today, he was going to let her ride a horse all by herself. Nobody leading her around on a lead rope like she was some dog. And she wouldn’t be sitting on no dinky, hard English saddle either. He had saddled up the russet-colored quarter horse with his old Western saddle, the same one he had used when he was a little boy._

_The leather creaked beneath her as she followed her dad out into the empty field. The harvest had been completed so it was  bereft of its crops with the exception of some stalks sticking out here and there. She nudged the old mare with her knees, just like she was taught and she held the reins loosely in her hands at the right length correctly._

_The plodding trot her dad set the pace at was boring though. She wanted to go_ faster _. She wanted to kick the horse in the ribs like she saw in the movies and make her_ run _._

_Then the wind picked up. Not a lot. Just enough to blow some leaves around, to ruffle her hair and to make her pink-and-white striped scarf rise and fall._

_But the fluttering scarf caught the horse’s eye and spooked her. All of a sudden, Violet went from enduring a boring ride to riding a bucking bronco. She gasped as the horse’s back legs kicked back. She panicked and grabbed the reins too tightly and the horse reared up on her hind legs, kicking up with her front. Violet didn’t know what to do so she closed her eyes as she felt the stirrups slipping off her feet. Then the horse took off like a shot. Violet screamed and grappled blindly for the saddle horn, but she lost her balance and then her grip. Before she knew what was happening, she tumbled head over heels until she was face-down in the dirt._

_She lay still for a moment, the breath knocked completely out of her. Then, slowly she got to her hands and knees then rolled backwards, plopping down onto her backside. She spat out a mouthful of soil. She looked up and saw her dad walking towards her, leading both horses by their reins._

_He kept hold of all the reins in one hand as he knelt down in front of her. Everyone said she looked like her mother because of her curls and her freckles but she had her father’s hazel eyes. She often wished she had her father’s hair, true blond and straight locks, not the dirty-blond curls she had inherited from her mother._

_“You OK, pumpkin?” he asked in a serious voice, but Violet saw how he was fighting a smile and so she scowled at him._

_“Yeah… I guess.” She pushed a curl that had escaped her braids out of her face._

_“What happened?”_

_“I dunno. I was doing everything you told me but my scarf didn’t stay around my neck and it made Candy scared and she acted all crazy.”_

_“I saw that. So what did you do wrong?”_

_Violet looked at the toes of her cowboy boots, her new boots her grandma had bought just for her. “I got scared,” she muttered._

_“No. Getting scared is OK. I get scared all the time. What did you do wrong?”_

_“I…” there was a word floating inside her skull, but it kept flittering away from her every time she tried to grab it. So she picked its less formal synonym. “I freaked out.”_

_“You panicked.”_

_“Yeah,” Now Violet wanted to cry. Today was supposed to be fun, a day with alone with her dad. That was something that rarely happened. Michael was her brother and best friend, but he always whined until he was included too. Today was supposed to be hers alone and she spoiled it by being stupid. And now she was going to cry about like a baby._

_“Violet, life’s a lot like riding a horse. Sometimes, even when you do everything you’re supposed to, sometimes you just can’t control everything. So when things go sideways, like they did today, you got to make sure you don’t lose your head, alright? Gotta stay cool when things get hot, right?”_

_Violet rolled her eyes and chuckled. Her dad, great big important man in the military, always sounded like such a dork whenever he tried to use slang to sound cool. “Yeah, I guess.” Then, in a quavering voice, she asked “But what if the horse still runs away? Doesn’t do what I tell it to do even if I stay cool?”_

_“Baby,” he wiped a smudge of dirt off her face. “That’s when you just gotta hold on.”_

_“No matter what?”_

_“No matter what,” he stood up. A tall man, he towered over her now, the sun turning his blond hair into a halo. “Get up kiddo,” he told her and held Candy’s reins out to her._

_“Oh,” Violet shrank into herself. “I don’t wanna. I-”_

_“Get back on the horse, Violet,” he said in that tone of voice that tolerated no whining, no complaining and absolutely no arguments._

_Biting her lip so he wouldn’t see it trembling, she stood up, made a half-hearted effort to brush the dirt off her jeans before realizing it was a wasted effort. She knotted her scarf and tucked it inside her_ Members Only _windbreaker. “OK,” she said as she walked around to Candy’s side._

_As her father helped her back up on the horse, he told her, “Remember, you’re the one with the brains, so you’re the one who’s in control. Got it?”_

_“Got it…”_

Violet opened her eyes.

Took another cleansing breath and then scooted herself into the far corner of the boot as her snagged skirt would allow and curled up into a tight little ball. If they had a gun, the only thing they’d be able to aim at, was her ass.

_Make them drag you out of the trunk_ , she told herself. _Don’t let them shoot you in the trunk. If you can get out of the trunk, you’ve got a chance. You know their pressure points. Toller’s half-drunk and a failed actor. Mrs. Toller is deeply disappointed in her son, didn’t even acknowledge him as her child until she had to, so if I can get out of the trunk, I have a chance of pitting them against each oth-_

The car suddenly screeched to a halt, the tyres squealing. Violet hurtled forward, then back. Her skirts ripped free of the boot lid. Realizing she had mobility, Violet thought _Plan B_ as she wiggled her legs through her hands. Once her hands were in front of her, she groped around the boot, looking for something, anything to be used as a weapon. A tyre iron, a jack, _something_ …but all she could feel was the felt lining of the boot. 

Then she heard noise, the most beautiful noise in the world.

Sirens. Police sirens.

As a fugitive in a foreign land, Violet never thought she’d be happy to hear police sirens.  A few grateful tears slipped out. She awkwardly dashed them away as she heard someone say through some sort of amplifier to exit the vehicle with their hands on their head.

Then there was a ruckus. More shouting, then she heard people pounding on the car door, yelling and shouting. Violet couldn’t make out what they were actually saying in the din. Then she heard Edward crying and she surprised herself by pitying the baby monster. _This is definitely going to fuck him up more,_ she realized numbly.

She heard glass breaking. More shouting and the car door opening. Edward’s cries had increased in volume. “I want my daddy! I want my mummy! I want to go home!”

_Me too, kid_ , Violet thought, resting her head on the floor of the boot as she thought about her father helping her back up on the horse. _Me too_ …

_This horse is definitely galloping out of control, all I can do is hang on..._

Finally, finally someone popped the boot open. A flashlight shone on her face. Violet instinctively held her hands up to shield her face. 

“Miss Smith?”

Violet lowered her hands, frowning. That man’s voice sounded so familiar.

But her tingling fingertips took priority. She needed someone to fucking untie her hands.

“Can you,” she held her hands out. “I’m losing feeling in my fingers.”

Dexterous fingers undid the knots and pulled the cords off her wrists. Rucastle had tied her up with his phone charger cord. Violet groaned with relief as she flexed her fingers. As she started to climb out of the trunk, the familiar voice said “Let me help you, Miss Smith.”

Violet allowed him to assist her. Once her feet were on the ground, she looked up and saw a very familiar, very handsome dark-skinned face.

“ _You_ ,” she took a step away. “You’re… you’re Collins. From the Met. You helped me disarm a bomb last spring. How did you… why are you…” Violet’s eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. “Who _are_ you?”

He smiled and gestured towards a paramedic who jogged towards them, carrying a bright orange shock blanket. As he draped it over her shoulders, he told her, “I’m the man bringing you back to your fiancé.” As he escorted her back to his black vehicle, he whispered in her  ear “Mycroft Holmes says ‘You’re welcome’.”

Violet let her head loll back as she closed her eyes. Of course.

“His parents really should have called him Machina instead of Mycroft,” she groused.

“Sorry?”

“As in _Deux Ex Machina_?”

“The Ghost in the Machine,” the man she knew as Collins and the man Mycroft called Mitton smirked. “I think the Boss will like that.”

But Violet realized he was taking her away from the Audi at a rapid clip. She tried to twist her head around to look behind but Mitton said, “Don’t, just… don’t.”

“What happened?” she demanded as she saw the car being swarmed by police, MI-6 agents and paramedics. “I didn’t hear any gunfire.”

“They took cyanide tablets, the fucking cowards,” Mitton put what seemed to be a companionable arm around her shoulders but Violet knew he was lightly restraining her so she wouldn’t rush back to inspect the interior of the car. “Killed themselves, right in front of the kid. Bastards. I hope they all burn in hell.”

“All?”

“Rucastle’s dead,” he said, opening the car door for her. “Everyone’s alright and accounted for, although a bit worse for wear. I’ll let your fiancé explain the rest.”

Realizing she was in the middle of Godforsaken Bloody Nowhere, Violet strained her eyes as she looked frantically around, her heart pounding. The only light came from the headlights of the law enforcement vehicles and an ambulance. Everything else was pitch black. “Where’s the boy, where’s Edward? Did he run off? It’s dark and he’s only six but he’s emotionally unstable, quite possibly mentally ill, borderline personality disorder, perhaps. Also I suspect he may have been sexually abused…”

“He’s safe,” Mitton smiled sadly. “He was retrieved from the car. He’s already bitten the social worker, but he’s her problem now.” When Violet pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead then ran that hand down her face, he said in a not-unkind voice, “Hey, you did the best you could for that tyke. Don’t beat yourself up. Guilt’s going to get you nowhere, now isn’t it?”

“How do you know?” Violet demanded. “It’s not like Sherlock would have given Mycroft any information about this case. We didn’t know The Burned Girls was tied to the _Rouge_ , so how do you know that I did my best?” she laced the last four words heavily with sarcasm.

“Because that’s the type of person you are, Agent Hunter,” he whispered. “I did my research too.” He gave her a pat on the shoulder and held her briefly but not in a way that was threatening. “Your secret’s safe with me. Now, how about you get in the car?”

When Violet hesitated, he added softly: “Sherlock’s waiting for you.”


	29. Spark of Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do it and forget. Forget about all these ordinary concerns. These inconvenient friends, this intrusive family… forget about the child you never wanted. Forget about the woman you saved and the man you love. Just let it all go down as you rise high… high…high… 
> 
> Getting high is just like flying… fly to me Sherlock. Fly, fly, fly… oh but you traded in your angel’s wings, didn’t you? When you murdered Magnussen in cold blood, when your brains, your intellect betrayed you, failed you. 
> 
> You’re one of us now, aren’t you? 
> 
> Welcome home, brother..."
> 
> Some angst, some feels, some smut.  
> All-and-all, a typical Sunday :^)  
> Hope everyone had a Happy Valentine's Day!

Chapter Twenty-nine: Spark of Realization

11 August 2015  
The Copper Beaches  
Tuesday night  
10:01 PM

Sherlock had just handed Sergeant Alex MacDonald a stack of leather bound journals, a red binder of developed negatives and a freezer baggie of old black and yellow Kodak film canisters when a sleek black car pulled up.

Recognizing it as one of his brother’s government vehicles, he quietly exhaled a quick sigh of relief when it stopped and Violet Smith got out.

“She’s mad,” MacDonald cocked her head to the side, watching Violet storm towards them, the tattered remains of her skirts fluttering behind her. Her bare feet were filthy and her hair was a chaotic curly mess.

“Obviously, but a fortuitous thing, for that means she is alright,” Sherlock could not suppress his amused smile as two police officers fairly leapt out of her way as she stalked towards him.

Sherlock could tell how difficult it was for her to maintain her faux British accent as she launched herself at him. “You…complete… utter… _arsehole_!” she spluttered as she pummeled his chest, his shoulders, his upper arms, anything she could reach.

“Should we break this up?” a local cop asked MacDonald.

She shrugged with her full arms, “Nah.”

“’K, just checking,” he stood and watched for a few more seconds as Violet continued to swing at Sherlock. When he finally captured her wrists, she kicked him in the shin.

“ _Bastard!_ ” Violet howled as Sherlock held her out of kicking range. “You _lying_ bastard!”

The Cornwall cop sniggered then sauntered off to see if he could be of assistance to his fellow police officers.

The Copper Beaches had turned into a three-ringed circus. The property now crawled with every law enforcement agency imaginable and available. Portable lights illuminated everything. It was nearly as bright as day now. Forensics milled around the front of the house, measuring the bullet holes Mrs. Toller put into the exterior. One police sergeant was on his mobile, trying to coordinate with other agencies to get cadaver dogs in order to locate other potential murder victims. Another officer, in plain clothes, but with his badge hanging from a chain around his neck was shouting at someone on his mobile to get cadaver divers to come search the Helford River at first morning light and the expense can be damned.

After Sherlock informed Alex about the drugged Mrs. Rucastle, paramedics raced through the house and up the stairs to find Tristan in a heroin stupor. Sherlock watched dispassionately as they hauled her, pale, limp and waiflike, out on a stretcher. He stayed until they finished loading her up into a waiting ambulance. The sirens wailed as they took her to the nearest hospital.

Sherlock had then slipped back up her room, where police officers had already started cataloguing all the drugs, the legal prescription drugs and the illegal street drugs they found in her lavish and opulent bedroom.

He steadfastly ignored the baggies and baggies of cocaine and heroin, even though the insides of his elbows and thighs itched with longing.

But he did filch three vials of morphine when the cops’ backs were turned.

_Idiots_ he thought as he wandered off to retrieve Lady Elise’s films and journals, which had been hidden in Alice’s old childhood bedroom inside the box-spring of her old canopy bed. It didn’t seem clever at first glance. But when one realized just how narcissistic Rucastle was and how overwhelmed Mrs. Toller was by mopping up her son’s messes not to mention to day-to-day responsibilities running the household as well as “nursing” Tristan, it was indeed a very clever hiding place after all. 

Meanwhile other paramedics loaded up idling ambulances with body bags filled with Black Lotus gang members. The two Black Lotus members who had survived the carnage sat in the backseat of a guarded panda car, handcuffed to each other, both nursing epic headaches.

While the bodies were being loaded into the ambulances, the dog crates were being carried down from the garage to a waiting van from the Cornwall Branch of the RSPCA. But that task was only accomplished after Animal Control officers had had  tranquilized, muzzled and confined Big Carlo. Sherlock felt an odd sensation of something akin to pity as he watched the giant, unconscious hound being carted off. The poor thing, after all, had not only been abused but also was ill. The dog most certainly would be put down. While Sherlock had not hesitated to thump Big Carlo with a shovel when he attacked John, he thought it was a bit unfair for the poor beastie to be euthanized for killing a sorry excuse for a human being. 

But then, he’d always been a bit of a dog person.

In the meantime, local Cornwall police created a perimeter while forensics started through the house, the boathouse and the garage with fingerprint brushes, cotton swabs and fine tooth combs.

Sherlock thought it was a waste of time. The real villains were too careful to leave DNA.

When being Violet’s punching bag finally bored him, he twirled her around as if they were dancing, but held her tight, her back against his chest. He crossed her wrists over each other, effectively restraining her. “Do try to pull yourself together,” he murmured into her ear.

Violet struggled against him. “No! My dog got _shot_!”

“Ah, so you were already told about that,” he gave Mitton a dirty look as the MI-6 agent got out of the driver’s seat and stood by the car, clearly waiting for them. “While that was regrettable, he did save Mary’s life.”

 “REGRETTABLE?” she stomped on Sherlock’s foot.

“If you are quite finished abusing me,” he gritted his teeth as a burst of pain radiated throughout the delicate top bones of his foot.

“ _You left me!_ ” Her voice pitched up unnaturally high. The events of the last few days, starting from her misadventures with Mary at the Holmes estates to her near-poisoning at the Tollers’ hands to now threatened to completely overwhelm her. “ _You promised nothing would happen to me and you let them take me!_ ”

“Violet,” Sherlock snapped, tired of her histrionics now, even though deep down, he had to admit, they weren’t without merit. “You were in no immediate danger.”

“That bitch had a gun.”

Sherlock turned them both around to face the house. “I saw that Mrs. Toller had a nickel-plated Colt Frontier Six Shooter. It was the same gun Rucastle was playing with in the garage before he separated Mary and me. When she saw me, Mrs. Toller emptied all the chambers. Look, use your eyes,” still holding her wrist, he stretched out her arm as he pointed out the bullet holes in the house. “One, two, three, four, five, six. It was obvious Toller was unarmed when he putting you into the boot. I saw no gun in the back of his trousers nor holstered to his ankle. You would have felt a gun jutting out and poking you if he would have had a weapon tucked down the front. You didn’t yell he had a gun, you yelled my name. You would have warned me if he was armed.”

“How did you know he didn’t have a gun in the car?” Violet snapped but she was starting to calm down a bit.

“Obvious. The Audi was Rucastle’s everyday car. If he were to get pulled over for a routine traffic stop, he can’t risk having an illegal firearm in his vehicle, now can he? Especially if it’s the car he uses to transport Edward. The town car he and the Tollers used to abduct the aspiring actresses is actually parked behind the garage, which is in the process of being impounded, I do believe. If I would have seen that vehicle, then I would have been concerned.”

“But you didn’t know where they were taking me.”

“Not the exact location, no,” Sherlock admitted. “But…” he traced a long finger over her pretty gold wristwatch.

Violet sagged in his arms, all the fight leaving her now. Remembering how adamant Sherlock had been about her wearing her watch the entire time while they were at the Copper Beaches, she groaned, “You had a GPS tracker put into my watch after you got it fixed.”

“Seemed prudent,” Sherlock loosened his grip on her but did not completely let her go. “There’s an app on my iPhone. If I ever need to locate you, I open the app and technology does the rest.”

She snorted silently through her nose. “That’s why you stopped worrying about me trying to run away,” she said lowly, so Alex and the other nearby cops couldn’t hear.

“Mycroft worried, not I. However, yes, this does reassure Mycroft you can be found if and when necessary,” Sherlock told her. “It was actually you that led Mycroft and MI-6 to my parents’ estate, not Mary. He hacked into my mobile and opened the app via remote access, or rather one of his minions hacked into my mobile. But that is to be expected from Mycroft, so I can hardly be upset with him. Although I must confess I am a bit annoyed at Mary that  she took my van without asking. I would have gladly loaned it to her.”

Violet shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Every inch of her body ached, her muscles turning into a spasming cramp. She looked up and noticed Alex silently watching them with interest. “Is that it?” she pointed as her eyes locked on the books and baggie in Alex’s arms, “Lady Elise’s journals and film?”

“It is,” Sherlock cautiously let her go. “Not sure what good it does anyone now, with the lot of them dead, Rucastle and the Tollers.”

“Did someone call you about that?”

“No,” Sherlock put his arm around her and started to lead her away from Alex’s questioning stare and towards the waiting government car. “Before I determined who the murderers where, I deduced the people behind the Burned Girls’ deaths were cowards, bullies actually. The only reason why Josie Tey escaped and the others did not was Josie Tey fought back. The other girls did not. Bullies do not like prey who fight back. Also, the Tollers would rather be underhanded and poison their prey slowly than murder them outright. At any rate, my theory about their cowardice was confirmed after observing the Tollers’ action during our brief sojourn here. Neither one of them would tolerate being held accountable for their actions. Judging by Mrs. Toller’s proficiency with poisoning and drugging, it was an easy and logical deduction she would have some sort of toxin to ingest if indeed they had been taken by the police.”

“Speaking of escaping,” Violet let Sherlock lead her away from the chaos. “The girl? And Wiggins and Mrs. Hudson?”

“Safe and sound,” Sherlock assured her. “All of them. They are all en route back to London as we speak. I’ve been told her parents are elated,” he added the last bit in a confused voice, as if he couldn’t comprehend why her parents would be happy to be reunited with their daughter. 

“John and Mary?”

“In one piece, more or less,” Sherlock said. “Thanks to Gladstone, who is going to be fine, by the way,” he added quickly when he felt her baleful glare boring into him. “It was a clean shot, penetrated only fur and muscle. Bones are intact, no organ damage. John and Mary rode down to the vet’s surgery with him so he wouldn’t be alone.”

Violet’s face relaxed. “Oh, that was good of them. Well, let’s check in on Stone and maybe we can find a hotel or something in Falmouth. I’m dead exhausted.”

“We’re going to London.”

“What, now? Why?”

He whispered in her ear, “They also targeted my mother and Molly Lestrade.”

Violet froze. She whipped her head, her tangled curls fanning out. “What?”

“My parents are fine, but both Molly and Greg are in the hospital. I have been informed that Molly is being kept overnight as a precaution and Greg is expected to have a speedy and full recovery , but I need… I must… I…” he trailed off as an unfamiliar vulnerability crept into his eyes as he pressed his lips tight together.

“OK,” Violet nodded as she reached for his hand. “OK. We’ll go.” She gave his arm a gentle tug. “We’ll go, but,” she looked up and down his bloody shirt. “We both need to stop for a shower and a change first, I think. If we walk into the hospital like this, they’ll think we’ve come straight from a car crash. Or a battlefield.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, looking down at his shirt. “Yes… right. We’ll never get a cab looking like this.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Because that’s the main priority,” she huffed.

Mitton opened the door to the back seat for them. Sherlock actually let Violet get in first then he folded himself up inside. He gave Mitton directions to the Animal Hospital where Gladstone had been taken. “Brief visit, to assure you Stone is indeed recovering fine,” he told her, digging his mobile out of his pocket, skimming through his texts. “Otherwise you will fret all night.”

“Thank you,” she mouthed at him. But out loud, she asked “What now?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked as the car pulled away from the circus.

Violet look out the rear window, elated to see The Copper Beaches disappearing behind them. But then she licked her lips and whispered “Sherlock, my fingerprints are all over that place. Rucastle’s London house too. When The Met runs them…”

“They will correlate with the fingerprints belonging to Violet Emilie Laura Smith, born the fifth of August, 1978, in Charlington.” Sherlock was unconcerned that Mitton was blatantly eavesdropping. He was familiar with Mycroft’s minions. “I’ve been harassing Mycroft most of the night to ensure that everything is in order. Birth certificate, driver’s license, university diploma, even your library card,” his lips quirked up in amusement, “Have all been legitimized.”

_But no passport_ , Violet groused to herself. She ran her hand over her watch, still peeved she had been wearing a tracking device this entire time without even realizing it.

“The catch,” she did say, crossing her legs and arms. “Is picking a date,” she lifted her left hand. The engagement ring, miraculously, had not been lost. However, it was now, filthy.

“I don’t think we’re expected to decide tonight,” Sherlock drawled.

Thirty-five minutes later, Mitton pulled up in front of the Animal Hospital in Falmouth. Despite how it was supposed to be closed, light glowed from the door and windows. 

Absolutely uncaring how disheveled she looked, Violet leapt from the car and nearly sprinted inside, her bare dirty feet pattering on the pavement. Sherlock followed at a much slower pace.

An exhausted looking young man with a massive case of bed-head looked up from a chart he was reading when she stood in front of his desk. “Oh,” he tried swallowing a yawn and failed. “Sorry, you must be Miss Smith, the Alsatian’s owner. The Watsons told me to expect you. My dad’s the vet, I help on the weekends and summers, when I’m home from uni.”

“No one cares,” Sherlock droned.

Violet scowled at Sherlock as the vet’s son blushed and tried to smooth his hair back. He stood up from his chair. “Dad’s sleeping in his office, should I wake him”

“No, please, I just want to see my dog,” Violet’s voice trembled.

The young man pretended not to notice the state of Violet’s shredded dress and bare feet. His mouth did drop open when he finally noticed Sherlock’s blood-saturated shirt, but he led them to the back, where the kennels were without a word of protest.

Gladstone slept in the large, bottom cage. The cage’s door hung wide open, but Gladstone wasn’t going anywhere. Clearly sedated, the dog’s head rested limply on his massive paws. A huge, white bandage wrapped around his shoulders, forechest and withers. Part of his fur was shaved away on his right front leg where the IV catheter had been inserted before surgery to anesthetize him.

John sat next to the cage, scratching Gladstone’s head. He wore borrowed veterinarian scrubs and someone had re-bandaged his upper arm. The turn-ups of the scrub bottoms had been rolled up. His ankle was elevated on a large bag of kitty litter. An ice-pack rested on top of his swollen ankle and snowy-white bandages had been wrapped around the dog bite wound. 

Mary sat next to John. She had also traded in her ruined clothes for scrubs. She sat next to a dog bed where the frightened and malnourished bait dog slept, wrapped up in a lavender blanket with pink polka dots. The battered dog slept as well, receiving sedatives and nutrition through an IV drip.

John and Mary were also holding hands.

The scene brought Violet to tears. She covered her mouth and nose with both hands for a second then knelt down in front of Gladstone’s cage. She cupped his big black-and-tan head, careful not to disturb his IV or his wounds. She babbled, “Oh Stone, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone in the room, I shouldn’t have brought you with, I should have left you in London. I’m sorry I was so stupid.”

“I tried to keep him out of harm’s way,” Sherlock admitted lowly. “I told Rucastle I was taking him out for a walk before dinner. There’s a tool shed, right behind the garage, where the lawnmower and garden tools were kept. I hid him in there. If we didn’t need him to be a police dog, to give John additional protection while we retrieved Mary…”

His eyes lingered on John’s face for a second too long but then he looked away at the floor.

Mary frowned when Sherlock’s words trailed off then looked down at her fingers entwined with John’s. Decided to let that strange look the detective gave her husband go. 

“Violet,” John had stopped petting Gladstone when Violet had knelt down. Now he patted her on the back. “He’s going to be fine. Superficial wound. He’s going bounce back and start terrorizing the paparazzi again in no time.”

Violet gave him a watery smile. “You two OK?” she asked, her teary eyes flicking down toward their clasped hands, the back up at their faces.

Mary and John looked at each other and gave each other small smiles. “I think so,” Mary said cautiously, “Getting there at any rate.”

“Uh, yeah,” John cleared his throat and squeezed Mary’s hand. “Getting there, just need to sort some things out, so we’re going to stay here tonight and have a long, overdue talk. And also keep an eye on Stone and Sweetie over there, as Mary keeps calling him,” John nodded at the recovering bait dog, wrapped up in the soft blanket like an eggroll. The rescued bait dog had also been bathed and had his many wounds bandaged. Now that the dirt and the matted fur and dried blood had washed away, the battered dog appeared to be some sort of bulldog.

Sherlock immediately deduced “Sweetie” would be inevitably joining John and Mary at their terrace house.

Violet sat back on her heels. “I think that’s fantastic,” she said softly as she wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hands. “Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess.”

She averted her eyes from Mary’s.

She just couldn’t deal with Mary’s facade right now.

“It’s not been a good night for anyone,” Mary also noted the chill from Violet. She gripped John’s hand tighter. “But… well, I… _we_ ,” she looked at John emphatically. “Have a favor to ask you. Something _I_ should have asked at the beginning, before this whole mess started. But trust,” she bit her lip, “Doesn’t come easy to me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said before either Watson could ask. “We will help you find Marissa.”

“We won’t rest until we bring her home,” Violet added, still not looking at Mary. 

Mary reached inside her neckline of her scrubs and pulled a photograph out of her brassiere. “Sorry,” she blushed as she held it up to Sherlock, who had looked uncomfortable when she put her hand down her shirt. “Don’t have pockets. But, Rucastle gave this to me… he said… but I mean… it could be any baby. He could have just been playing mind games with me.”

Sherlock took one long legged step towards Mary. He daintily plucked the photograph out of her hands with his fingertips. He held it close to her face.

Then he handed it back to her. “It’s Marissa,” he said flatly. “John’s nose and mouth, your eyes. Taken when she was three months of age.”

“Oh my God,” now Mary covered her mouth as she gripped John’s hand now for dear life.

“We’ll find her,” Sherlock turned on his heel and left the kennels.

Violet kissed the top of Gladstone’s furry head, right between his docked ears. She whispered to the Watsons, “Mrs. Holmes and Molly were also targeted. We have to go back to London.”

“Text us,” John ordered her quietly while Mary’s eyes grew round as saucers. “And tomorrow you yourself go see a doctor. Right away, first thing. Go to a walk-in surgery. Tell them what happened and all your symptoms.”

“I will, I promise, you old worrywart,” Violet leaned over, kissed John on the cheek.

“So glad you did that after you gave a smooch to your dog,” John said drily.

“See you two later,” she said to both of them and even mustered a smile for Mary. Then she scrambled to her dirty, bare feet to chase after Sherlock.

She hoped to hell Mycroft had a helicopter waiting somewhere for them.

**

12 August 2015  
The Royal London Hospital  
Wednesday morning  
2:51 AM

“Sir, sir! You cannot go in there, visiting hours are over!”

Sherlock ignored the charge nurse following them down the hallway.

After their brief visit with John and Mary and the injured dogs at the Animal Hospital, Mitton drove them to Royal Naval Air Station Culdrose right outside of Helston. This had of course created a great deal of anxiety for the American fugitive, but Mitton hustled them through security briskly and ushered them to a private plane Mycroft had waiting for them.

Big Brother had even been thoughtful enough to have fresh clothes and shoes waiting for them. He had even provided a pair of fake spectacles for Violet, which was nice since her own pair had disappeared somewhere during that hectic and stressful night.

Although how Mycroft managed to get all of Violet’s measurements exactly right was beyond her. And also creeped her out more than just a bit.

Especially when the bra and knickers fit perfectly.

While in flight, Sherlock and Violet took turns in the cramped loo. Sherlock had managed to get most of the dog’s blood off of him. He had tried to flatten his curls, but gave up. When it was her turn, Violet had washed away the grime and the thick foundation caked onto her face.

Without the cosmetics, huge purple smudges ringed her golden-green cat’s eyes. Her freckles (twenty-seven in all, according to Sherlock) popped out on her grayish-white face. Ever her lips still looked a trifle pale.

Even so, she hadn’t bothered painting on another coat of fresh make-up. When Sherlock had lifted his heavy brows in query, she had merely shrugged and said it hadn’t seemed necessary. Not now, not during the dead of night, while under Mycroft’s umbrella of protection, ha ha.

When the pilot had announced they were twenty minutes away from London, she did scrape together her heavy chestnut curls and wound them into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Once the plane touched down in Heathrow, there had been another one of Mycroft’s government cars waiting for them.

When Sherlock and Violet had climbed in, they found Anthea sitting in the back seat. She wore one of her prim suit-and-skirt outfits, busy texting as usual.

She did not bother to look up from her screen when the weary detective and federal agent sat down. She did however, murmur “ _Privet_ , Violet,” with a flawless Russian accent and a small, condescending smile.

Violet’s frown was a foul and frightening thing. 

Sherlock couldn’t quite deduce what had transpired between the two women. He had a feeling this may be a mystery that might be in his best interest to leave unsolved.

The drive had stayed quiet other than Anthea clicking away on her Blackberry keys. When the car finally reached the Royal London Hospital, it had barely stopped before Sherlock clambered out and bolted for the entrance. Violet struggled to keep up, her new shoes feeling like they were made out of lead instead of leather.

She made a mental note to kick Mycroft for giving her a pair of _fucking high heels_ to wear. 

Her heels clacked on the pristine linoleum hospital floors, which may have tipped the nurse off that two unauthorized visitors had entered the ward.

“Sir, sir, I must insist you leave this instant. Or else I shall be forced to contact security!” the nurse charged after Sherlock and Violet, like a persistent little goat.

Sherlock pivoted neatly, bent down and got into the nurse’s round, indignant face. “Do it,” he dared her, his ever-changing eyes devoid of color in the unnatural lighting.

Intimidated by the rumbling baritone and the grey-black eyes, the nurse gulped and took a step back. But her voice stayed firm, “Do not threaten me, sir.”

“Please,” Violet inserted herself between Sherlock and the nurse. “We won’t disturb Dr. Lestrade. She’s a dear friend and the madman who attacked her and her husband… well, you see that bastard was part of a vicious gang who attacked _us_ too.” Seeing the nurse’s face softening, Violet found her pressure point and pushed with a gentle hand. “She’s like a sister to us. We just got here from Cornwall and this whole affair has been so upsetting, I,” she flicked her exhausted eyes up at Sherlock. “ _We_ need to see Molly with our own eyes to make sure she and the baby are alright.”    

“There’s a guard at the door,” the nurse said, but Sherlock could tell by the way she fingered the security badge that hung from a lanyard around her neck she still felt unsure about letting anyone near Molly. “He won’t let you in the room.”

“We don’t actually need to go inside the room, we don’t,” Violet gave Sherlock a stern glare as he opened his mouth. “We can just peek inside the window in the door. There is a window in the door, is there not?”

There was. There was also not only a uniformed cop sitting on a plastic chair right outside the door, but kitty-corner was a plain-clothes MI-6 agent, pretending to do the crossword and drink coffee. He also observed that the cleaning woman who was taking her sweet time mopping the floor was also undercover MI-6.

“Go ahead,” Violet whispered to Sherlock who seemed to have his feet frozen to the floor once they had arrived at Molly’s room.

She gave him a gentle nudge. Sherlock, normally so graceful and lithe, plodded towards the pathologist’s room, obviously afraid of what he was going to see. The cop asked Sherlock for identification. Too drained to make a malicious comment at the cop’s expense, Sherlock took out his wallet and showed him his driver’s license. Alex had thoughtfully retrieved the men’s wallets and ladies’ handbags and made sure they were given back to their respective owners before they left Cornwall.

The cop reviewed the license, checked his list and nodded as he gave the license back. “Just a peek in the window and be on your way then,” he said gruffly.

Sherlock peered inside. Saw Molly hooked up to a variety of monitors and machines, all recording and scrutinizing her vitals and the baby’s. Her head lolled to the left, her long neck exposed. Her auburn hair was in disarray, unusual for Molly. Molly of the intricate plaits and the simple, neat pony tails. Her chest rose and fell with every breath. Her eyes fluttered underneath her eyelids, her mouth twisted. Obviously, some sort of nightmare held her in its grip. Even in sleep, her hand rested on her round, firm belly… fingers splayed out, protecting the baby within, trying to shield him for  a little while longer from the big, bad world…

_He’s kicking. Do… do… do you want to…?_

Her voice had been so sweet, so eager as she had pulled his hand towards her tummy.

He had never touched a woman like that. Never felt a child move within the womb…

He felt ill.

“What the bloody hell,” Lestrade’s angry voice made both Violet and Sherlock jump. “Are you two doing here?”

“Boss, sorry,” the uniformed cop bolted out of his chair, stammering “He’s, he’s on the list.”

“List? What list?” Lestrade snapped, limping towards them. He wore hospital scrubs, booties and held a cup of coffee in one hand and an ice pack in the other. There was Elastoplast taped over the goose egg that had swelled up on the spot where he had been hit across the temple. “I didn’t make a list and he wouldn’t be on it if I had.”

“Greg, please,” Violet Smith pleaded but the nurse interrupted, “DI Lestrade, I warned you. I was only going to allow you to stay with your wife if you rested. You have a concussion.”

“Mild concussion,” Lestrade snapped at her.

The nurse’s face turned an interesting shade of puce at Lestrade’s snotty remark. “It’s still a concussion. You are in no condition to prowling around the hospital. Or drinking coffee! And you most certainly cannot start rows in the hallway!”

“Is there a meeting room or a private lounge where we can all have a word, privately?” Violet sounded close to begging. “It’s important, we have information to give DI Lestrade regarding his wife’s attack and then we’ll leave and let him rest, I promise.” 

The nurse looked unquestionably displeased but she jerked her head for the three of them to follow her. “Nurse’s lounge, this way,” and she trundled off without checking to see if they followed behind her.

They did, of course.  The nurse stood like a sentinel, watching then through slitted eyes as the cop, the detective and the exiled agent tromped into the nurse’s lounge. “Right,” she checked her watch, an ugly pink plastic thing, “You have a quarter of an hour to sort whatever needs sorting out. Then you two,” she gave a pointed look at Sherlock and Violet, “Leave at once and you,” she shot Lestrade an equally displeased look, “Back to your wife’s room and _into bed_. Not sitting at your wife’s side. Resting in the bed across from hers.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lestrade pressed the ice-pack to his temple.

She nodded and shut the door behind them.

Some late-night trashy program played on the telly behind them. Just as Violet turned to switch it off, Lestrade promptly seized Sherlock by the lapels of the new suit jacket Mycroft provided for him. “Greg! No, stop it!” she cried out as Lestrade slammed Sherlock into the wall, barely getting out of their way in time. A large framed photograph of a sunny, ocean-side beach fell and crashed to the floor. “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done _years_ ago,” Lestrade snarled and smashed his fist into Sherlock’s face. There was a sickening crunch as his knuckles met Sherlock’s nose and cheekbone. And then another crack, as his fist connected with Sherlock’s mouth, splitting that full lower lip. “Is this what you were trying to tell me? That this is what’s worse than Moriarty?  That this is what we have to look forward to? That this is our life now?” 

Realizing Sherlock only stood there instead of defending himself, Violet launched herself at Lestrade and grabbed his arm with both hands as he drew back for another punch. “No! Stop it, stop this at once. You’re his friend, don’t do this, _please_!”

Lestrade froze, his arm suspended in mid-arm. Sherlock’s blood shone on his knuckles.

He turned his head slowly, his normally warm, chocolate-brown eyes cold and calculating. “What,” every word was clipped and chilling, “Did you say?”

“Greg, you don’t want to do this! Sherlock… this, tonight… it’s bigger than what any of us anticipated, please, he would never deliberately bring danger to Molly and the bab-”

“Shut up,” Lestrade shook Violet’s hands off his arm. He let Sherlock go and faced Violet, his face turning red. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

Violet took a step back, but instinctively she balled her own fists. Her very bones ached with weariness but she’d be damned if she backed down now. “Greg,” she said through clenched teeth. “Stand down. I don’t care if you’re a cop, I will fight back if you lay a finger on m-”

“I said, _shut it_!” he barked at her.

Behind them, Sherlock straightened. Blood oozed down his alabaster skin as his cheek and lip bled. “Greg, leave her alone, this is between you and m-”

“You shut up too. I don’t want to hear your fucking voice for the rest of the night!” Lestrade whirled around to scowl at Sherlock. The venomous words lost their sting as Lestrade pressed a palm to his temple.

“Greg, this was a bad idea,” Violet kept her voice low and reasonable. “Let’s talk in the morning after we’ve all had a sleep an-”

He stuck his finger in her face. “Repeat after me,” he ordered her. “’You’re his friend.’”

Violet paled. She realized her mistake. Panic-stricken, she looked over Lestrade’s shoulder at Sherlock. He had closed his eyes in defeat when Lestrade told her to repeat what he said.

Violet shook her head, backing away from him. “Let’s talk in the morning,” she begged, her heart-rate shooting into the stratosphere again.

Lestrade looked at her in absolute disgust. “Goddamn it,” he growled. “It was _you_. You left those voice mails on Sally Donovan’s phone, trying to warn her about Moriarty. You were the one who rang me after The Fall, telling me how badly The Met had botched the abduction of ambassador’s children and how Moriarty had set Sherlock up. How you had a murder weapon, a knife, with Moriarty’s fingerprints on it, which definitely proved that Richard Brook was rubbish and Moriarty was real.” He advanced on her. Sherlock tried to grab Lestrade but the furious detective inspector easily pushed Sherlock away. As Violet backpedalled, Lestrade demanded, “Care to tell me who Cyril Morton really was? And why Jim Moriarty killed him?”

“Greg, _please_ ,” Violet felt her chest constricting. Her hands shook uncontrollably now.

“And what did you say to me? On the phone? I’ve got the conversation on my mobile still, if you can’t recall? Because I can. Perfectly.” His face twisted. “That conversation haunted me for years. Two years, I believed I caused _my friend’s_ , death, I believed I could have stopped a plan that was put in place by MI-fucking-6. Do you know what she said, Sherlock?” he asked bitterly.

Sherlock woodenly quoted the snippet of conversation he had overheard when John had confronted Violet about the same thing months ago verbatim: “’And you, you just sat by on the sidelines. He thought you were his friend.He killed himself for you. And you did nothing. Well, you can finally do something now even though it’s too little, too late…clear his damn name. He’s your friend. Dead or alive, he’s still your friend so you owe him at least that.’”   

“That’s right,” Lestrade said grimly, “My _good friend_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock bowed his head, looked at his shoes.

“He is your friend,” Violet’s voice was as faint as she felt. She wondered if she was about to have a heart attack or panic attack. Either way, she felt awful.

“Oh yeah, he’s the best,” Lestrade let the sarcasm flow. “I simply can’t imagine having a better friend, someone who knocks up your ex when he knows you still had feelings for her. Knocks her up and leaves her and the baby vulnerable to the psychos and criminally insane.”

“I didn’t leave her vulnerable,” Sherlock jerked his head as blood dribbled down his face, ruining another dress shirt. In a cold hiss, he added, “I left her _with you_.”

Lestrade lunged for Sherlock again, only this time he fought back. He twisted Lestrade’s arm behind his back as easily and painfully as he had Mycroft’s the day before he had gotten shot by Mary. And he had been high when he restrained Mycroft. “That’s quite enough.”

Lestrade however, wasn’t finished. “Tell me,” he panted. “Why Miss Smith had an American accent when she called me four years ago? But she had a British accent to tip me off about the surgery bombings in March and continues with a British accent now?”

Feeling her legs giving way, Violet Hunter told Sherlock, “Let him go,” as she sank down into a chair. “You’re just making it worse, Sherlock.”

Sherlock acquiesced. Lestrade straightened and tugged his scrubs shirt down. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who was Cyril Morton? Who was Robert Carruthers?”

Violet shook her head. “I’m not your enemy. And Cyril and Robert were good men.”

“Well, that’s just bloody reassuring, great, thanks loads, yeah,” he sneered at her. Then he pointed back and forth between Violet and Sherlock, demanding “So, is this… you two, this so-called _relationship_. Is that even real?”

“We’re engaged,” Violet whispered.

Lestrade snorted. “Oh how lovely. How much is Mycroft paying you off?”

“Greg, I said _enough_ ,” Sherlock raised his voice, not quite a shout, but close. His words were slightly slurred as his split lip started to puff up a bit.

“Yeah,” Lestrade looked at his hand, noticing Sherlock’s blood on his knuckles for the first time. “It is enough.” He studied Sherlock as he carefully chose his next words. “I can’t stop you from consulting on cases because unfortunately, we need you. What’s worse, you know that we do. You actually play nice with Alex and McPherson, so I can’t even keep you away from my division.” He lifted his finger and pointed at Sherlock, “But I don’t want you near Molly. Work with a different pathologist on cases. Hear me? Stay the hell away from my wife and _my son_.” He jabbed himself in chest now with his finger.

Sherlock appeared unmoved, even as his face continued to bleed. “Shouldn’t you consult with your wife first, before making a decision like that?”

“I did,” Lestrade said tightly, enjoying a rare, shocked expression cross Sherlock’s face. “Yeah, you smug prick. This is something Molly and I decided on together.”

Violet found her courage. Her legs still wobbled but she stood up anyway. “She’ll regret that decision and so will you. It’s not in either one of you, to abandon a friend.”

“And how would you know?”

“I used to read people for a living. Now I read them to stay alive.”

“Are you some sort of psychic?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed loudly. Both Lestrade and Violet shot him sour glances.

“No,” Violet said hollowly, returning her gaze to Lestrade. But she didn’t offer any more information. She clasped her shaking hands in front of her.

Lestrade now studied her with the same intensity he had Sherlock earlier. He ran his tongue under his lip and over his teeth. “Don’t worry,” he finally muttered. “Your secret is safe with me, _Miss Smith_.” His nostrils flared, “Like anyone would believe me anyway.”

But Sherlock and Violet exchanged a nervous glance over Lestrade’s shoulder. There were loads of people who would be interested in what the disgruntled detective inspector had to say.

“I mean it though,” Lestrade started backing out of the nurse’s lounge. “You and me, Sherlock? We’re quits. Stay away from my family.” 

Once Lestrade left, Violet crossed over to the abandoned ice pack. It took her two attempts with her shaking hands to pick the damn thing up. She finally managed and carried to Sherlock, placing it in his hand. Folding his fingers over it, she whispered, “Let’s go home.”

Sherlock nodded and held the ice-pack to his pulverized face.

They slipped out the back stairwell, and circled around the hospital to the front. Violet hailed a black cab as Sherlock iced his face.

Violet felt a heaviness lift from her shoulders as she saw Baker Street illuminated by the street lamps. Her hands stopped trembling. But her eyelids itched from sleep deprivation and her stomach hurt from the abuse it had taken these past few weeks, from the rich foods to the arsenic in her tea. A whopper of a headache threatened as well. She also felt terribly thirsty. All she wanted right now was a giant glass of ice water and some ibuprofen. Then her bed.

Or couch, rather.

Sherlock fumbled in his trouser pockets awkwardly for his house keys. He let them both in and together they lumbered up the stairs to 221B. The mismatched, unfashionable lounge, with the papers and test tubes and skulls and books scattered everywhere looked absolutely heavenly to Violet.

She dimly realized the Burned Girls case had been solved. She made a mental note to make sure Sherlock ate something tomorrow… or today, rather.

As he kicked off his shoes and she pulled her high heels off, Violet told Sherlock, “You better eat something before you crash.” 

“Pah, eating. Dull,” he said brusquely as she let the heels drop on the floor. “I’m tired and I’m still bleeding. I’m going to tend to my face and go to bed. Are you joining me?”

“ _What?”_

It took Sherlock a moment to realize his faux pas. “Oh! No. Not… like… that. Honestly, Violet. Solving crimes is exciting, it’s hardly erotic.”

“Sherlock, I’ve been sleep-deprived, poisoned and kidnapped. Plus my dog was shot. My puny brain can’t keep up with yours on a good day. Use little words.”

“Your brain is of adequate size. Above-average, actually.”

“Wow, thanks. So… the bed thing?”

“Forget it,” his face flushing, he turned down the hallway towards the master bathroom.

“Shit,” Violet’s eyes fluttered shut. She padded down the hallway after him. She stood in the doorway as he ran a flannel under lukewarm water.

“Sit,” she gently ordered him. “Let me help you.”

“You’re exhausted, go to bed. I’m not that tired, actually.”

“Sit the fuck down, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock dropped the flannel in the sink basin and sat down on the toilet.

She let a little smile of victory turn up her pale lips. She turned the tap off and picked up the damp flannel. She started dabbing at the angry wounds on his face, her touch feather-light. She cradled the back of his head with her free hand, her fingers entwined with his curls.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let her coddle him. He might have even fallen asleep if she hadn’t warned him “This is going to sting a bit.”

He may have even dozed off a bit when she went to retrieve the first aid kit. But he woke back up when he felt the bite of alcohol on the cuts on his cheek. He folded his lips tightly together. Then he winced as pain shot through his split lip and inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Sorry,” she breathed. As she dabbed polysporin over the cuts, she asked “Why didn’t you fight back when Greg started beating the hell out of you?”

“Same reason why I didn’t fight back with you when you started hitting and kicking me at the Copper Beaches,” he murmured. “You both needed an outlet for your anger.”

He felt her nimble fingers, pianist’s fingers, lightly but firmly apply the bandages on his cheek. Then he felt her cup his face with her hands, steady and strong hands, with calloused palms and scarred knuckles. Fighter’s hands.

She tilted his face up just so and pressed her soft lips to his brow.

He felt an odd, almost sentimental urge to wrap his arms around her narrow waist, pull her closer to him, bury his face in the crook of her shoulder, comb out her tangled curls with his fingers and just forget everything for a while…

But that was how things had gotten ruined between him and Molly. And Lestrade became a casualty of one night of bad decisions. Their friendship had crumbled into collateral damage.

And sex never truly completely stopped his ruminations and deductions anyway. Not really. He actually always felt worse afterwards, after the release, regretting his loss of control. Not to mention dealing with the inevitable and messy aftermath. The physical and emotional mop-up.

At any rate, the thing that made him _him_ : his mind, his infernal mind, his wonderful, terrible brain… it never wearied like his body. The transport could orgasm, could starve, could be extinguished but his brain burns on and on, an eternal flame.

Even if he had decided to act on that strange, uncharacteristic impulse to cross a very serious line with Violet, the opportunity had flittered away. When she had finished kissing him, she said softly “Give me the drugs.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. She had her hand outstretched. When he opened his mouth to protest, she said “Please. Tristan Holloway’s bedroom in the London house was a damn pharmacy. I can only imagine what it was like at the Copper Beaches.” She beckoned with her fingers. “And you forgot to take your methadone yesterday.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock put his fingers to his lips and then immediately pulled them away, wincing. “Actually, I haven’t taken them in over a week. Maybe longer. I think the last time I took my pills was when we confirmed Toller’s involvement in the Burned Girls case. Yes, the fifth of August. The last dose I took was on your faux birthday.”

“And you’re doing OK?”

“Apparently.”

“Awesome. Then give me the drugs you swiped from the Copper Beaches.”

Sherlock puffed out an angry, irritated breath. But he bent down and pulled one of the vials out of his sock. He placed it in Violet’s hand.

“Really? You just said my brain was above-average.”

Sherlock gave her the second vial.

“Stop treating me like I’m stupid, Sherlock.”

“There isn’t any more Violet,” he lifted the leg of his trousers to show her.

“Turn out your pockets,” Violet was unmoved.

Sherlock obeyed, with a black look clouding his face.

“There,” he snapped as he pulled his pockets out.

His heart pounded. He had only hidden one of the vials when he heard her coming down the hallway to help tend to his injuries.

“If you’re quite finished treating me like a junkie,” he tucked his pockets back in. “I need to think. I need quiet. Take my bed. I’m not tired after all. And I don’t need you to…” he abruptly stopped talking but he could tell by the pity in Violet’s eyes she had figured out what he had really meant when he had asked her to come to bed with him.

_I don’t need you to stave off the nightmares._

After Sherlock flounced off in high dudgeon, Violet shut the bathroom door quietly behind her and locked it. She turned the shower on. She cracked open the vials and poured the liquid down the sink drain. Then she got on her hands and knees and reached behind the toilet. She found the loose tile and pried open. One of Sherlock’s many little hidey-holes within the flat. She found the third vial and sighed as she sat back on her backside.

“Oh Sherlock, really?” she twirled the vial in her fingers. “I used to do this for a living.” 

As Violet deprived Sherlock of his prizes, the detective stomped around his lounge, as his skin crawled with irritation and exhaustion. He finally flopped into His chair and steepled his fingers, trying to determine what his enemies’ next move would be. His concentration however was shot to hell. His body cried for sleep but his brain craved action.

Sometimes he wished he could turn it on and off like a tap.

_There is a way_ , a wicked voice sang sibilantly in his head. _You’ve got the needle, you’ve got the juice. All you have to do… is to just do it._

It sounded too similar to Jim Moriarty’s voice.

_Do it and forget. Forget about all these ordinary concerns. These inconvenient friends, this intrusive family… forget about the child you never wanted. Forget about the woman you saved and the man you love. Just let it all go down as you rise high… high…high…_

_Getting high is just like flying… fly to me Sherlock. Fly, fly, fly… oh but you traded in your angel’s wings, didn’t you? When you murdered Magnussen in cold blood, when your brains, your intellect betrayed you, failed you._

_You’re one of us now, aren’t you?_

_Welcome home, brother._

“Sherlock?”

He jerked out of his uncomfortable slumber. Violet stood in front of him, her curly hair damp from her shower, wearing his t-shirt and her yoga bottoms. She held a half-full glass of water and a small bottle of ibuprofen. She smelt like his soap, his shampoo and her coconut oil. He could still detect faint traces of witch hazel, which didn’t have that much of a scent to it in the first place.

“I had the shot,” he blurted out. “And I didn’t take it.”

“What shot?” She put the water and pill bottle down on the fireplace mantle.

“Winchester,” he whispered. “I convinced myself I was too far away and I needed to get closer, but that was a decision based on fear. Not logic. That’s not… me. That’s not how I make decisions. My hands are far from clean. I killed people during my Great Hiatus. I shot Magnussen at point blank range. Why did I lose my nerve in Cornwall when it really mattered?”

Violet sat on the arm of his chair. “You killed those people during the Hiatus in self-defense. You killed Magnussen to defend Mary and John. The Earl,” she chewed on her lower lip in that utterly unattractive habit of hers, “Posed no immediate threat. Your only motivation for killing him would’ve been purely out of revenge and that’s not who you are. You’re no saint, but you’re not a vengeful person. Murdering the Earl like that doesn’t fit your profile.” She hesitated, clearly debated something. “Rucastle left Edward alone with the Earl,” she whispered as the room grew lighter. Dawn approached. “He didn’t seem to show any signs of abuse, but that doesn’t always mean anything. Especially if the kid was already screwed up.”

Sherlock nodded his head, “He is a horrible man,” the words fell unwillingly out of his mouth.

“He’s an evil man,” Violet said darkly as the early dawn’s light turned her chestnut hair copper. They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts but as the room continued to brighten up, Violet finally said, “Sherlock, would I be wrong to say that Jim Moriarty is dead, but someone else is calling the shots, using the name ‘Moriarty’ as some sort of honorific title?”

“No.”

“Could the Earl be the new Moriarty?”

“A terrifying thought, but no.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Moriarty has to be untouchable. The Earl has too many liabilities. If _my Lord_ decides to get cute and reveals your true identity to the press, for example, well… I may have to consider giving an exclusive interview to one of the media parasites.”

Violet felt him shudder. “You would go public, for me?”

“I promised you if you were ever in doubt or danger, I would come,” he quietly reminded her. “And I know you would do the same for me. You already have, you risked exposing who and what you really are at the restaurant when Janelle created that embarrassing scene.”

“Janine,” Violet absently corrected him as she started carding her fingers through his hair.

“Mm, whatever,” he sighed, stretching out his long legs. “Whoever Moriarty is, make no mistake, he is the puppet-master. Even though the Earl is unfortunately a very powerful man, when he went to the _Rouge_ to cover up his many prurient and licentious indiscretions, they now control _him_. And he’s more useful to them as a respectable member of the House of Lords  than as a disgraced and imprisoned child defiler.” 

 “Then who are we chasing after?”

“A shadow.”

Violet slid off the chair arm. She reached down and took Sherlock by the hand. “Your back will be screaming bloody murder if you fall asleep in that chair again.”

But he shook his head, “I can’t… I need to think.”

“You need to stop thinking. Just for a few hours, get some rest.”

“That’s what the morphine was for, I can’t turn my thoughts on and off like a light switch.”

“That’s not sleep. That’s passing out. And all your problems will still be there in the morning.”

“What, pray tell, is the difference?”

“You wake up with a wicked hangover and a monkey on your back.”

“I always did want a pet monkey,” Sherlock said wistfully.

“We’re not getting a monkey.”

“Be quite useful around the flat, a monkey. Four pairs of hands. Be great for the clearing up.”

“We’re not getting a monkey. We have a dog.”

“We could bring him to crime scenes. A monkey would be more far more intelligent than the half-wits employed at the Met.”

“We ARE NOT getting a monkey!” Violet snapped. “The koi in the bathtub was bad enough.”

“Sleep-deprivation leads to mood swings,” Sherlock said sweetly. “I think you should practice what you preach my dear Violet and go to bed.”   

He then realized she still held his hand, her fingers were entwined with his.

“Sleep-deprivation also leads to memory loss,” Violet primly informed him. “Let that sink in for a minute.” She gave him a small, sleepy voice as he pondered the ramifications of that fact and his disdain for sleep. She tugged on his hand. “Come on. Humor me. At least lie awake next to me. Normally I have Gladstone sleeping next to me when I’m feeling...” she swallowed hard and her eyes grew watery as she thought about her poor, loyal dog. “Maybe I need you to wake me up from the nightmares this time.”   

Sherlock stood up and slipped his hand from hers. “Very well,” he murmured. He let her walk ahead towards the bedroom as he shut lights off and drew the drapes.

“You know, if we had a monkey, we could train him to turn off the lights.”

“WE’RE NOT GETTING A MONKEY!”

**

31 August 2015  
Monday morning  
7:41 AM

_“The Copper Beaches” - by John H. Watson, MD_

_“My friend, Sherlock Holmes, once commented: “’To the man who loves art for its own sake… it is frequently in its least importance and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived.’** He then proceeded to give me one of his typical backhanded compliments, first stating it was pleasant for him to observe that I had so far grasped that truth in my little blogs of our cases that I have been good enough write up. Before I could enjoy that slight praise, he then thoroughly and ruthlessly lambasted my writing, finishing his scathing critique by stating: “You have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about the thing.**’”_

_“I pointed out that his words were a bit rude and reeked with arrogance. After all, you all read “The Science of Deduction,” yes? I read it when I can’t sleep. (285 types of tobacco ash, indeed! I get sleepy just thinking about it, actually.)_

_He advised me to stop acting so wounded (I believe his exact words were, “Do stop behaving like a prima donna, John. You are hardly Tolstoy.”) but he amended his previous statement by saying: “’It is not selfishness or conceit. If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing – a thing beyond myself. Crime is common.  Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.’**”_

_Grudgingly I do have to admit he is correct. However, I will leave the lectures to him and continue telling my tales._

_And this particularly twisted tale is this: Jepthro Rucastle was indeed a man who loved art for its own sake. He believed his love for art elevated him above mortal men, made him transcendent. I can solemnly swear, in front of God and in open court (had his crimes ever had the opportunity to go in front of a judge), that this is not true. Jepthro Rucastle was a common criminal. He was a misogynistic bastard. The only difference from him and the ordinary arseholes who hate women was Rucastle had too much time and money on his hands. And no one had the bollocks to tell him no._

_Several of Rucastle’s former employees have started coming forward now. All attest to Rucastle’s wild mood swings, his violent tendencies, his gross narcissism and his strange demands, especially towards dress code. All expressed concern for Mrs. Tristan Holloway-Rucastle and the boy Edward. But they had all been threatened, emotionally and physically, whenever they tried to report his abusive behavior. They had all received threatening calls at night, cars following them slowly if they had showed any signs of dissent. They had all signed crippling confidentially agreements, forbidding them from discussing anything regarding Rucastle, his home, his family and his business. If they would have uttered a word about the wrongdoings in that house, the employees would be ruined, their finances and their reputations._

_In hindsight, we should have realized it was odd Miss Smith was never required to sign such a contract. Now we know Rucastle had far more insidious plans for our ‘clever girl’ (as my besotted friend calls his fiancée.)_

_The young lady who was Edward’s tutor prior to Miss Smith has just come forward as well. She requested we keep her anonymous. But she did tell me that she gave a statement to New Scotland Yard. One of the incidents she had told them was how she refused to cut her long blond hair when Rucastle ordered her to do so. After their “family tea”, the young lady felt woozy and ill. Then she remembers nothing. She did not know how she went from the parlour to the spare bed in Edward’s nursery. But her long blond curls were gone. Her hair had been chopped into a boy’s haircut. She then sat up to see Edward playing with a long blond braid, teasing his pug puppy with it. Shortly after that event, she had received a job offer from a government official. She accepted without delay, of course._

_Some may argue that the Tollers’ crimes were far from ordinary. Abducting girls, starving them then cutting off their hair before killing them when they didn’t fit Rucastle’s peculiar vision of perfection? Topped off by burning their flesh off after they had been murdered? What is common about that, one can ask._

_A fair question, I believe. While the crime is definitely disturbing, I do not believe the Tollers need to be glorified for their disgusting acts of violence. I don’t think they should be treated as extraordinary. Sherlock is extraordinary, as you all know from reading about his adventures. Miss Smith is extraordinary because I have never met someone who can remain as level-headed in a crisis as she does. And my wife is extraordinary because of her loyalty and her bravery… and because she continues to put up with me, for some odd reason._

_The Tollers are not extraordinary. Not to me. They are just common criminals._

_They were also the tools Rucastle used to carry out his own misdeeds. Rucastle was just as much as a coward as the Tollers. The Tollers committed suicide to avoid prison. Rucastle never wanted to get his hands dirty. Shortly before his untimely (but not unwelcome) demise, Rucastle had confessed to my wonderfully brave wife how he planned on letting the Tollers take the fall for his crimes._

_I would have preferred Rucastle and the Tollers face an open court and spend the rest of their lives in prison for what they have done, especially to the girls and young women we were not able save in time. Alana Grant, Martine Hallard, Toni Pandy. plus all the young women whose remains are still being recovered from the Helford River as well as unmarked graves behind the Copper Beaches as I write this. Those are the names that should be remembered._

_However, I would be lying if I said I was sorry the Tollers and Rucastle were dead._

_I do not think Tristan Holloway is sorry her husband is dead either, judging by the interviews she’s been giving since she finished detoxing from all the drugs her husband and his servants had been forcibly injecting into her, making her into a mindless, pliable zombie._

_I had only interacted with his second wife briefly. Most of my information regarding Tristan Rucastle came from Violet’s observations. But in that short time I had seen her, ‘Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me colourless in mind as well as feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a non-entity.’**_

_Of course, this was how Rucastle wanted her. Now that she is sober, she is showing her true colors, a fierce firebrand and a devoted mother. True, Tristan had a previous reputation of a party girl. However, she vows she had given up all her vices when she had gotten pregnant. A former maid of Rucastle’s has testified how her dog, a beloved cockapoo, had gone missing after she told Rucastle she thought Mrs. Toller was overmedicating Mrs. Rucastle. Days later, her dog was returned to her, in little bits and pieces. And Tristan continued in her drugged haze._

_I think it’s safe to theorize the poor mite was used as a bait dog in Rucastle’s dog fighting rings, as the newest addition to the Watson household was._

_(Sweetie says “Hello”, by the way. She also says “Thank you” for all the blankies, toys and dog biscuits you wonderful, kind people have all donated. The excess we couldn’t use have been donated to an animal shelter in Westminster.)_

_I am not at liberty to comment about how Edward Rucastle is faring because he is a minor child and a current ward of the state while his mother is still in treatment.  I fear he will have a rough go of it, after all he has seen in that house of horrors. But I am cautiously optimistic as his mother is working hard on her sobriety. He also has an elder half-sister in New York. It was because of her request to investigate her father, that we were able rescue Edward, as well as his mother and Evelyn Payne-Ellis.  So because the boy still has some family, I have hope._

_Sherlock will most definitely moan how this blog is an opinion piece instead of an objective chronicle. I know you all look forward to his withering comments. I also know I’m going to catch hell for the “besotted friend” comment. However, I know I will probably be adding on to this story as it is not quite over. Not yet._

_The Burned Girls have been solved, but another mystery remains. The journals Sherlock recovered at the Copper Beaches proved while Rucastle’s first wife was paranoid and ill, she was not suicidal and her case has been re-opened as a homicide._

_Rucastle told my inordinately courageous wife he did not kill his first wife. But Mrs. Toller assisted in her murder._

_So the question remains. Who killed Lady Elise?_

_Until the next time… or next crime, I should say… JW_

_PS: Gladstone is also recovering nicely. The gifts have also been appreciated. By Stone and Violet, at least._

_PSS: Sherlock too…he’s secretly a dog person. Funny, I had always pictured him with a cat._

John sighed and leaned back in his chair as Mary refilled his coffee mug. Even though today was a bank holiday, both John and Mary had risen early. John out of his old military habit of course. Mary because she a list as long as her arm of chores and errands she needed to accomplish. Her housekeeping had gotten neglected due to the events of the last month.

They had spent a cozy morning in their little kitchen. John cooked breakfast, nothing special, just a fry-up consisting of last night’s left over roast beef and potatoes, but Mary declared it as delicious anyway. She went to change out of her pyjamas and dressing gown into black yoga bottoms with a gray t-shirt and one of John’s grey cardigan jumpers. She started a load of laundry then came back down to the washing-up. John meanwhile fed their new dog, who really was a sweetheart. True to Sherlock’s deduction, Sweetie came home as soon as the vet declared he had healed up enough to travel.

He was not a pretty dog, not sleek and regal like Gladstone. The former bait dog was missing an ear and part of his tail. He still needed feeding up. There were still bald patches here and there where fur had fallen out in clumps due to anxiety and malnutrition. He still cringed at loud noises and hid from strangers. Mary didn’t care. She had fallen in love with Sweetie and John succumbed to the dog’s charms shortly after. 

John had wanted to name the bull dog something a bit more manly. But Sweetie stuck.

It fit him though. The hound was a furry bag of love and snuggles, a walking, barking plush toy. Sherlock had deduced Sweetie had some human interaction before becoming a bait dog. That the fact not all humans were bad and mean lingered somewhere in his doggy brain. Sherlock deduced Sweetie probably belonged to an elderly person who had doted on him but had been dumped at a pound after his owner died. When Rucastle had been looking for bait dogs, he looked for mild and non-combative dogs, like Sweetie. Sherlock also deduced Sweetie was no spring chicken either, probably seven or eight years old. But the abuse had subtracted at least two years from his life-span.

John and Mary didn’t care how long Sweetie had, just as long as his twilight years were happy and comfortable. Plus John had never had a pet before, not even a goldfish when he was a child. Mary had hinted about wanting a cat, but he vetoed that out of hand. He didn’t fancy dealing with a litter box. But he had melted at the sight of the poor dog wrapped up in his blanket at the animal hospital while keeping vigil over Gladstone.

John’s heart had thawed out quite a bit that night. 

While Mary handled the laundry, John made fresh coffee, gave Sweetie a belly rub and a dog biscuit. The more weight the dog put on, the more he started looking like a proper bull dog. The dog gobbled the biscuit then licked John’s hand appreciatively. Then he curled up in a ball and fell asleep in one of the many dog beds blog fans had donated. 

John seriously had underestimated how many fans the blog had until he mentioned in a brief post how he and Mary had adopted a bait dog from a dog fighting ring Sherlock broke up. Donations of dog food, treats, toys, blankets and furniture flooded their terrace house. Mary and John really did end up giving away the bulk of the donations. One package came all the way from Australia. They did keep one of the donated toys from that box, a kangaroo doll.

While John wrote, Mary cleaned out the refrigerator, then proceeded to start baking, staring with an enormous amount of muffins. Some were for immediate consumption, the rest to freeze for later. After the muffins, Mary planned on making three different kinds of bread and a pie. 

As they worked, John opened up Pandora and turned the speakers of his laptop as loud as they would go. Currently, The White Stripes blared out:  
 __  
Don't wanna hear about it  
Every single one's got a story to tell  
Everyone knows about it  
From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell  
And if I catch it comin' back my way  
I'm gonna serve it to you  
And that ain't what you want to hear  
But that's what I'll do…

“How’s the blogging going?” Mary asked after refreshing his coffee, kissing his temple.

 “Oh, a bit frustrating,” John admitted, holding the mug to his lips. “This is by far one of the longest blogs I’ve ever written. There’s so much to tell and so much I have to leave out. Plus,” he took a sip and put the mug down. “I don’t feel like I’m being very honest.”

“Why?” Mary asked as the oven beeped, indicating the blueberry muffins were ready.

“I said I had hope for Edward. I don’t. That kid is seriously fucked up.”

“Oh?” Mary opened the oven door, pricked a muffin with a toothpick. When the pick came back clean, she put on an oven mitt and took the baked goodies out. The smell of warm blueberries, caramelized sugar and butter filled the kitchen.

As Mary started spooning more muffin batter into the next set of tins (banana walnut, John’s favorite), he explained, “Violet went to visit him. I think she went out of guilt, but at any rate. She went and she told Sherlock his prognosis was pretty grim. Severe psychological problems. Violent. He’s in isolation because he’s been hurting other children, girls mostly. He tried to stab one little girl with a pair of scissors. Granted, they were plastic safety scissors, but seeing that he went for her eye,” John sighed and shook his head. “There have been other violent incidents. Worse than that even, but Violet said the staff is trying to keep all of that under wraps. So they don’t feed into the media frenzy.”

Some arsehole had tipped off the press when Evie Payne-Ellis had been reunited with her tearful parents. Like hornets, the media swarmed Baker Street, once again making Sherlock and Violet virtual prisoners. Mrs. Hudson had needed a police escort just to get inside her own flat. A well-meaning officer had asked if maybe she had wanted to spend a night or two in a nice hotel. But Mrs. Hudson had tartly informed him that “England would fall” if she didn’t return home. A few reporters had camped out by John and Mary’s as well, but once they realized the blogger and his wife weren’t going to give a comment, they sulked off.

Just as well. The Watsons weren’t nearly as colourful as the Great Consulting Detective.

And the price for a good picture of Miss Smith, now confirmed as Holmes’ fiancée, had trebled. 

The Lestrades, mercifully, had been absent from the press, other than Lestrade giving a generic statement congratulating all the officers for their hard work and thanking Sherlock for his assistance. He did, however, give public kudos to Sergeant Alexis MacDonald for her perseverance and dedication on this case. Somehow the Met had managed to keep both home invasions quiet, as well as Dr. Lestrade shooting her attacker with her husband’s gun.

John and Mary knew about the fall-out between Sherlock and Greg. Only John knew the full details. But instead of lying, he admitted to Mary he did know exactly why Sherlock and Greg were currently not friends, but he couldn’t tell her why. He told her he had to keep that a secret to protect others.

Mary accepted it and trusted him.

John hoped he could do the same when it was his turn.

“It’s only been a few weeks, John,” Mary sprinkled bits of crushed walnuts over the muffins. “Even if the boy wasn’t fucked up, I think, was your professional diagnosis?”

“Quite,” John said solemnly.

Mary smiled, “Even if he was a normal, stable little boy, his father just died. His mother is in treatment for drug dependency and he witnessed two horrible cowards commit suicide. He was also snatched from the lap of luxury and dumped into a state run facility, which I’m certain, is not a five star hotel. The child’s traumatized, John. Everything he has ever known is gone.”

“I suppose, but still, you weren’t there that day at the lido,” he said as he re-read the rough draft of his blog. “I just have this bad feeling this kid will come back to haunt us someday.”

“Or maybe,” Mary put the new batch of muffins into the oven. “Maybe, deep down, at the bottom of his soul, there’s a spark of realization. And that spark will catch, burning out all the bad and the ugliness. Maybe he’ll want to change his life, become who he was meant to be. Not what he was born into.”

John smiled. He stood up, turned and wrapped his arms around Mary’s waist. He kissed the hollow between her throat and shoulder. “Do you know how fine you are to me, Mary Watson?” he paraphrased a line from the film _Rob Roy_ , complete with a mangled Scottish burr.

Mary turned around, linked her arms around his neck. “Liam Neeson has nothing on you.”

“Except maybe a foot or two,” John joked, raising his hand high above his head.

“Stop fishing for compliments. You’re perfect,” Mary reached for his hand, linked her sticky, batter-covered fingers through his.

He brought their entwined hands down to his mouth as her body pressed shamelessly against his. He licked off every drip of batter from her fingers agonizingly slowly as he felt her shiver against him. Soon his hands were skimming up her t-shirt and hers had slipped down the waistband of his pyjamas bottoms.

“Should I turn the oven off?” she finally asked breathlessly.

“Mm, yeah,” he kissed her. “What I have in mind will take much longer than twenty minutes.”

“Be a shame for muffins to catch fire, wouldn’t it?”

“Banana walnut is my favorite,” John groaned as her fingernails lightly scraped the outside of his thighs while she nuzzled his neck, planting kisses.

“Upstairs?” she breathed as she wrapped her fingers around him. Stroking him just as slowly as he had licked batter off her fingers, she asked playfully “Or on the kitchen table?” 

It took a moment for John to reply. But finally he stuttered out “Uh, upstairs, I think.”

“You sure?”

“Uh… yeah, errr… um, the dog is watching.”

Mary turned her head, looked down and a giggle burst out of her mouth. Sweetie was watching their antics while wagging his stump of a tail. “Perv,” she told the dog with mock severity, but she switched the oven off and took her husband’s hand. “Come on then. I want to see what you have planned that’s going to take longer than twenty min-mmfff.”

John shut her up with a kiss. A long, hard, deep kiss while his fingers threaded through her hair. With a self-satisfied grin, he led her out of the kitchen, still limping slightly from his injuries. But as he guided her from the kitchen, he started removing her clothes, starting with the grey cardigan. Then his t-shirt followed. Then his shirt and her bra. A trail of their clothing followed them up the stairs.

Sweetie watched the jumper flutter to the kitchen floor.  With a snort, he lowered his head to his paws as his New People giggled and slobbered all over each other as they went upstairs.

If he could talk, he definitely would have said, “Humans are weird.”

Then he snagged the jumper and started chewing contently on the sleeve.

His Humans were weird. But he liked them. Very _very_ much.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The snotty comments of Sherlock's that John quoted in his blog can be found here: 
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Copper Beaches. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.
> 
> Only two chapters left.... wonder what else could possibly happen? :^)
> 
> ***Edited to fix a slight continuity error.... I'm probably the only who noticed, but I have a slight case of OCD :^)


	30. A Sentimental Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock?” Victor demanded. “Who killed Lady Elise?”
> 
> Sherlock smiled. It was the most terrifying sight Victor had ever seen..." 
> 
>  
> 
> FEELSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! And a smidge of smut. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments and subscribers and bookmarkers and the lurkers who've been reading... just one chapter to go... I can hardly believe it :^0
> 
> Happy Sunday!

Chapter Thirty: A Sentimental Man

31 August 2015  
John and Mary’s residence  
Late Monday morning  
11:37 AM

In a post-coital haze, John idly stroked Mary’s arm as he spooned his naked body around hers. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spent all morning in bed like this.

He kissed the back of her neck, tempted to drift back off to sleep. It wasn’t in his nature to be lazy like this. But on the other hand, the bed was warm and so was his wife’s body. Warm and smooth. He kissed her shoulder blade.

When he felt Mary rising however, he hooked his hairy leg around her smooth leg and grabbed her waist. “Stay,” he half-growled, half-whined, as his hand found her breast. He started teasing her nipple with his thumb, feeling it harden as he breathed “Stay,” against her throat.

She turned to face him and they snogged for a while, like teenagers. With lots of giggling and inappropriate comments, but Mary half-heartedly told him she needed to run errands, he slid his hand down the inside of her thighs and found her wet and wanting. The giggles turned to heavy breathing, moaning and gasping when he rolled her to her back and made her come for a second time that morning. 

Eventually, Mary sat up again. Her blond hair stuck up on end as badly as his. “You have hedgehog hair,” he teased her. She grinned and kissed him on the nose. He tried again coaxing her to stay in bed, hinting at Round Three but she shook her head.

“Love, if I don’t go now, the shopping won’t ever get done.” She slipped out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown as John groaned theatrically. “Oh stop. Plus I still have all those muffins and bread to bake. I’ll have to make the pie tomorrow.”

“We’ll live on take-out,” John insisted. “I don’t need pie.”

“The kitchen’s an utter disaster, now too.”

“Still not as bad as Sherlock’s. I can live with a bit of a mess.”

“Who will take the dog out?”

“He can piddle on the floor for all I care. Fuck it,” John joked but he sat up as well. “Alright, time to be responsible adults, I suppose. The rubbish needs to go out, I’ll tend to that. And there’s some charting I need to catch up on as well. Probably should check on emails, to see if Sherlock has any interesting cases. I’m sure he’s probably driving Violet mad by this point.”

“Maybe if he’d just let his guard down and shag her, he wouldn’t be so frustrated,” Mary quipped. “Who knows, he might even like it.” When John hesitated, Mary said, “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” John didn’t want the magic of this morning to dissipate. But one of the things they agreed on when they talked long into the dawn (and past that) while at the Falmouth Animal Hospital, was to address an issue immediately instead of staying silent and letting it start festering.

He tugged on Mary’s sleeve and she sat back down. “When he was a little boy, something… dreadful happened to him and, well… let’s just say relationships will never be easy for him. Especially, ah, _physical_ relationships, if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh,” Mary breathed, realizing John had entrusted her with a major secret about his best friend. “No,” she said, putting her fingers to his lips. “Don’t say anything more. That’s his story to tell. But thank you for trusting me to keep it a secret and helping me understand Sherlock a little better.” She kissed him almost reverently. “I love you, John Watson.”

“And I love you, Mary Watson,” he breathed back at her.

There was no AGRA, no Anya, no one else. There was only Mary. 

She then gave him a naughty smile. “Join me in the shower?”

“Well, water conservation is important,” John tried to sound aggrieved but he couldn’t imagine anything more pleasant than bathing with his wife.

After doing some positively sinful things to each other while showering, John and Mary finally bathed properly, dried each other off then grudgingly put clothes back on.

“Will you be home for supper?” Mary asked as she tied her shoelaces.

John spat toothpaste into the sink. “Plan on it,” he said. “But if Sherlock surprises me with a Seven or an Eight…”

“Text me then. Otherwise, shepherd’s pie and a nice salad?”

“Sounds lovely,” John rinsed his mouth then said, “Come here,” and kissed her. “Have fun.”

“John, I’m shopping for new hospital scrubs and then for food. That’s hardly fun.”

“Have fun anyway,” he kissed her again and swatted her backside.

“Take Sweetie out for a wee before you go anywhere,” Mary called as she left the bedroom. Then John chuckled when he heard her exclaim, “Oh damn,” when she saw the trail of their clothing littering the house.

John had just finished shaving when his mobile chirped. He wiped the remaining traces of shaving foam off his face and retrieved his mobile from the bedside table.

He had a missed call from Violet.

He rang her back instantly. “Can you get to Baker Street by 3:30, 3:45 at the very latest?” Violet Hunter demanded without so much as a hello.

“Well, hello to you too, Violet. Nice to see Sherlock’s manners are rubbing off on you.”

“Bite me,” she said cheerfully. “Can you get here by 3:30?”

“Um,” John checked his watch. When he and Mary had gotten into the shower, it had only been a quarter past noon. Now it was almost half-past one. His stomach suddenly growled. If he let Sweetie out to potty, put the rubbish bin on the kerb and by a miracle caught the 2:10 train to Westminster, he might have time to swing by Speedy’s for a quick bite.

He decided to damn the expense and call for a cab. His morning’s activities had given him a voracious appetite.

“Yeah, that’s no problem,” he told Violet. “But why? What’s going on?”

“Oh, shit’s going to go down,” she told him. She sounded positively giddy.

“What kind of shit?” John asked, apprehension popping a hole in his good mood.

But Violet had rung off.

John sighed and went to get his gun.

**

31 August 2015  
221B Baker street  
Monday afternoon   
3:41 PM

“John, hurry up!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” John groused. While his ankle was much better, stairs were still a little bit of a challenge.

He was glad he had taken a cab ride. His stomach threatened to eat itself by the time he had reached Baker Street. He was glad he’d had a chance to get some food into him.

After Violet had filled him in on why she needed him at Baker Street today, he was glad she had rang him. Ecstatic, actually. He was well aware he and Violet were acting like naughty, sneaky school children, but there was no way in hell he was going to miss this.

So he ate his sandwich and soup with indecent haste. Downed a quick cup of tea, paid his bill then hobbled after Violet.

“If Sherlock catches us here before he gets home, he’ll chase us out,” Violet fished her keys out of her jeans pocket, already at the top of the landing. But John had reached her by the time she unlocked the door. 

Gladstone slept on a rug next to the couch. He was mending but quite sulky that he couldn’t quite jump up on the furniture yet. It would also be some time before he would be taking any bad guys down as well.

“Stone, _bleiben_ ,” Violet ordered her dog and the healing Alsatian was more than content to remain on his rug.

John opened the door to the staircase that led up to his old room. Violet darted up two stairs and sat down. John sat next to her, shutting the door behind him.

“Your phone on silent?” Violet whispered, peering through the old-fashioned keyhole.

John nodded. Violet gave him the thumbs up.

The wait wasn’t long. Soon Violet and John heard the front door open and close. They could hear Sherlock humming under his breath, pausing to say “Good dog,” to Gladstone. Then there was a flump and a sigh as Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa.

“If you brought me here to listen to Sherlock nap, I’ll kill you,” John whispered to Violet.

“Shut up,” she mouthed back at him, acutely aware of his sharp hearing.

But if Sherlock had heard them, he didn’t have time to act on it. “Yoo-hoo, Sherlock?”

“It’s open,” Sherlock told her.

Mrs. Hudson let herself in. She was no worse for wear after her harrowing abduction and escape from The Copper Beaches. The paparazzi had finally gotten bored with this particular story by now and were no longer hanging around Baker Street. The only noticeable change was she indulged in her herbal soothers a bit more than she had before.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson stooped down to pet Gladstone. “Your friend is here, Victor Trevor.”

“Mm, send him up.”

“Oh, the doorbell is broken again.”

“I know.”

“Can you stop shooting it, please?”

“Apologies.”

“And here when I thought John had moved out, I wouldn’t have to worry about guns anymore,” she fussed, “But you and John have both gone off and gotten yourselves girls who _like_ guns.” 

“Tea, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted. “At quarter to five, if convenient.”

“So late?”

“Yes.” 

“Alright. Any nibbles with tea?”

“Tea is fine. Send Victor up.”

When Mrs. Hudson departed, Sherlock leapt off the sofa, straightened his coal-black suit jacket with a jerk. Then he stomped over the obstructive coffee table, waiting for Victor in the middle of his cluttered, but relatively dust-free flat. Violet wouldn’t allow dust to accumulate.

He heard Victor thank Mrs. Hudson before he entered the flat. He let himself in, his blue eyes brightening at the sight of Sherlock. “Sherlock, thank God. I’ve been so worried, love.” He crossed the room as fast as he could, obviously intending to embrace Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped him, hitting his breastbone with the heel of his hand.

“Sherlock? What the hell?”

“How long have you been working for Moriarty?”

Upon hearing that, John’s jaw dropped open. Violet however, only joyfully slapped his arm, shoulder and back over and over, as if they were at an exciting sporting event or watching a beloved old movie and the good part was just about to start.

“Stop it,” he hissed at her, “Shush.”

She stopped hitting him, but she gripped his shirt sleeves, vibrating with excitement.

Unaware of the two eavesdroppers, Victor backed away from Sherlock. “What? No. I’m… I’m not working for… have you lost your senses? I would never work for Moriarty.”

“Not knowingly, of course not,” Sherlock demurred. “You had known for years that Jepthro Rucastle was your sister-in-law’s father. You had also known about Lady Elise’s strange death for a very long time as well. Why now? Why tell Alice about my detective services now? Why didn’t you tell her when I was just getting my career off the ground? Or when I started working with John Watson? Or why not immediately after I returned from my Great Hiatus? Why _now_?”

“Because your fucking brother told me to stay away from you,” Victor scratched the side of his nose. “That’s why I didn’t say anything sooner.”

“One,” Sherlock intoned.

Victor gave Sherlock a puzzled look, but persevered. “Any rate, even if your brother wasn’t a gigantic prick. I didn’t know who her father was until now,” Victor turned his head to the left, looking at the ornate mirror over the fireplace. He rubbed his nose and mouth then looked at Sherlock. “She had changed her maiden name from Rucastle to Rutledge when she became an American citizen. There was no way I could have known that nutter was her dad.”

  
“Two.”

Victor shook his head but Sherlock didn’t explain. So Victor plowed on. “She never said anything about her lunatic father until,” he rubbed his nose. “Until she found out she had a little half-brother.”

“Three,” Sherlock’s voice was little more than a puff of air.

“Three… sorry?”

“Three lies you’ve told me just now,” Sherlock surveyed Victor under hooded lids. “How many more have you told me in our lifetimes?”

“That’s Mycroft talking, not you,” Victor glowered.

“While it brings me great joy to antagonize my meddling brother, I cannot blame him for falsehoods he did not create,” Sherlock’s nose flared. “You lost your job in New York. Why?”

“The economy, of course.” 

“The poor economy is the cause of your laziness and bloated sense of entitlement?” Sherlock’s heavy brows rose in faux surprise. “But we were in uni in the Nineties. And lived together in the early 2000’s, before the economy collapsed so what caused your slothfulness then? Not to mention the spending beyond your means?”

Victor scowled. “I didn’t make my numbers, my quota.”

“Ah yes, good. Making progress,” Sherlock jeered. “In other words, you didn’t work hard enough to achieve your goals and you were sacked. You were sacked,” Sherlock raised his voice as Victor started to protest, “And desperate. Your reputation in New York was rubbish. No one would hire a wastrel like you, especially a non-citizen. Americans are coarse and loud and vulgar, it can’t be denied. But they have an amazing, almost superhuman work ethic. Many Americans have no problem working sixty, seventy, eighty hours a week. And that’s just to make ends meet. Whereas you couldn’t even survive in France, where all they are required to work is thirty-two hours a week. You were about to lose your residency card. You were about to have to go back to England with your tail between your legs and debt up to your eyeballs.”

“And then you got a mysterious telephone call. A call promising to make all your dreams come true,” Sherlock took a step closer to Victor. “All you had to do was bring a case to my attention.”

Victor licked his lips. “I didn’t see the harm,” he whispered. “OK, I knew about Alice’s dad. They paid me well for bringing that to your attention. That’s where my nest egg came from, the one I was talking about when you came to my place earlier this month. I also thought if you could prove her dad killed her mum, she could heal.”

“Her father didn’t kill her mother.”

“What?” Victor squawked. “Do you know who did then?”

“Of course. It was obvious once I had all the data.” 

John and Violet looked at each other in surprise. Violet mouthed “Did you know?” to her. Wide-eyed, Violet shook her head, just as clueless as everyone else.

While everyone waited for an answer, Sherlock checked his watch. It wasn’t a bank holiday in America. They celebrated their final summer holiday on the first Monday of September. She should be getting her post by now.

“Sherlock?” Victor demanded. “Who killed Lady Elise?”

Sherlock smiled. It was the most terrifying sight Victor had ever seen.

“Alice.”

**

31 August 2015  
Fowler & Fowler Talent Agency  
Monday morning   
10:16 AM

 Alice turned the heavy cream-colored envelope over and over in her hands. Part of her just wanted to chuck it straight into the rubbish bin. Another part of her wished she had never opened that FedEx envelope when her secretary brought it to her.

She put the envelope down on her lovely desk and stared at it, worrying at her thumbnail. Chewing it until she realized not only did the nail polish taste foul, but she was ruining her manicure.

She reached for her silver letter opener and neatly slit the envelope open.

She took out the letter. Noted it was handwritten on expensive and lovely stationary. The handwriting was precise and elegant. Old-fashioned cursive, (practically calligraphy, really) what her granny had called “copperplate”.

If she hadn’t been so terrified, she would have thought the gesture quaint.

Nerves jangling, she started to read:

_“Mrs. Fowler,_

_When I received your request to cease and desist investigating your mother’s death, I regretfully could not comply. I had already solved her murder by the time I received your message._

_Now I shall absolve you of your guilt._

_Yes, you brought the tea laced with arsenic to your mother. Yes, you had even continued to bring her tea when you realized what was happening to your mother. Yes, you knew Mrs. Toller was poisoning her._

_Yes, you were powerless to stop her._

_You were a little girl trapped in an impossible situation. Had you been an adult, you would have had more options available, means to fight back. But you were a child as well as a prisoner, as well as a victim of atrocious emotional abuse. I did not find any evidence of physical abuse so I cannot and will not speculate. However, it would not surprise me in the least if you told me there had been._

_Your father fell in love with your mother because he believed her world revolved around him. She was Persephone to his Hades. She was Queen of his Hell. He fell out of love with her when her attention changed from him, to you. She was your mother therefore this was natural and proper when a child was born. However, your father is a sociopathic narcissist. This switch of allegiance was unacceptable._

_But he never wanted your mother to die. Just to be controlled._

_Mrs. Toller was only supposed to keep your mother sick and therefore dependant on your father, physically, emotionally and financially. But Mrs. Toller discovered your mother had been carefully cataloging everything. The photographs she took were of her own body wasting away from the poisoning as well as photographs of blood in her urine, her stool and her vomit. Apologies for the graphic descriptions, I have been told I am not good at being delicate in circumstances such as this._

_Mrs. Toller is by far one of the most loathsome women I have encountered in my lifetime and I have encountered some foul people, Alice (if I may call you Alice. If not, apologies again but as I am handwriting this, I cannot correct mistakes.) She took the colorless lump of clay that had been her son and molded him into a pyromaniac serial killer with a touch of OCD. When he turned into a disappointment (and he was a grave disappointment, even as a murderer, he was quite unimpressive), she lavished all of her attention on another man’s son, taking the raw material of a child and crafting another psychopath. I do not know how she treated you, whether she had pampered you or ignored you. But I am fairly certain her interactions with you had to have been quite unhealthy._

_Just as she fed your father lies about your mother being agoraphobic, she also fed your father lies about your slattern ways, flirting with the neighborhood boys, enticing them sexually. She was already telling him these lies when you were still little, starting when you were seven years old. That was why I believe your father tried to squash your burgeoning sexuality. I deduce he honestly believed you were acting like a whore, when in reality you acted like a normal girl going through puberty._

_Mrs. Toller knew your mother’s journals and photographs were hidden somewhere in the Copper Beaches. But she could never get her hands on them because, as you had told me in our Skype interview, the trips to the Copper Beaches ceased after your mother’s death._

_Based on the data my partners and I have collected, it had been determined on one the last nights of your mother’s life, Mrs. Toller laced the tea, not with her usual arsenic, but with a powerful hallucinogenic. This is concrete evidence presented in the autopsy’s toxicology reports. These reports had been stolen and yet, a silent partner of mine found them hidden in your old bedroom in your father’s London house. So I deduced that while under the influence of this hallucinogen, Mrs. Toller goaded your mother into suicide, simply to cover her own backside. She could not risk your mother escaping and turning her journals and photographs in to the police as evidence of Mrs. Toller’s misconduct._

_Mrs. Toller then sought help from a consulting criminal syndicate, known as the Rouge Dirigé Liguecase or the Red Headed League. It was easy for Mrs. Toller to reach out to the Red Headed League because your mother unfortunately and unknowingly had a familial connection to this syndicate. A connection that cannot be conclusively proven at this time, alas, but I digress. These people help plan and commit crimes, for a hefty fee. Mrs. Toller had one of these consulting criminals steal the toxicology reports for her. Mrs. Toller then told your grieving father you had murdered your mother and you needed to be shut away for everyone’s protection. She told him she had hidden the toxicology reports to preserve the Rucastle’s “good name.” Eventually, I believe your father knew Mrs. Toller planned on blackmailing him, if she ever got tired of being in his service, if she got tired of being his serf._

_The hallucinogen and the arsenic in her system conclusively prove your mother was murdered. Her journals proved without a shred of doubt that her death was not your fault. Mrs. Toller used you as surely as a knife or a gun. The Met had let me read your mother’s journals. She meticulously documented how Mrs. Toller threatened to murder you in your sleep if your mother did not drink the tea you brought her. She documented how she knew Mrs. Toller had threatened you too. How the one time you refused to bring her tea. The next day, you and your mother had found your kitten dismembered, his body parts on your bed, his head in your dollhouse. Your mother had taken photographs of that as well._

_How you survived mentally and physically, a psychological torment such as that, even after your mother’s death is, quite frankly, a miracle. As a man of logic and science, I do not toss that word around lightly, if ever. But you did survive. What’s more, you thrived. You decided to live._

_Now live with the irrefutable proof that you did not murder your mother and that she loved you. Her last words in her journal were about how much she loved you and if she didn’t make it, she hoped you would survive all of this._

_I believe you have and actually surpassed her expectations. I am not a sentimental man. I only make statements based on facts._

_Thank you for this most intricate, fascinating case. Solving this mystery has been my pleasure. Should you have any other uses for my unique services, please do not hesitate to contact me._

_Yours sincerely,  
Sherlock Holmes_ ”

By the end of the letter, Alice sobbed so hard, she could barely read the final lines. The inside lenses of her glasses were wet. Eventually, she pulled herself together. She took off her glasses and went into her private bathroom. She washed her face and carefully reapplied her make-up.  Her eyes were still quite red, but she could blame allergies.

She did not sit back down. She stood at her massive office window, staring out. Staring East.

Looking towards home.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Her lips trembled but she did not weep again.

She smiled a little as she whispered “Oh Mama…”

**

31 August 2015  
221B Baker street  
Monday afternoon   
4:20 PM

“So when you said Alice killed her mum, you were just being overly dramatic, as usual.” Victor’s blond brows furrowed together. “Alice was just the means to the end.”

“More or less,” Sherlock shrugged. “She was the weapon, not the murderer.”

“God,” Victor whistled. “You know, I never thought I’d feel sorry for Alice. Always a cold fish. A right bitch to me too, she was.”

“She treated you as she did because she saw through you. You didn’t like her because you knew she didn’t succumb to your  charms.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Soon, she won’t be my sister-in-law and we-”

“Oh stop,” Sherlock sniffed, “There’s no _we_. There never will be. Not now. Not ever. Not after how you betrayed me.”

“Betrayed you? Sherlock, I love you. I would nev-”

“Don’t make me bring up Prague,” Sherlock drawled. “How you conned me into moving back to London after your father cut you off financially. Or how you found solace with others whenever I was in rehab or when my parents carted me off to that tedious eating disorder clinic that one ghastly Christmas holiday. Or was it New Years,” he mused then shrugged. “Shortly before my twenty-fifth birthday at any rate.”

“As if you were entirely faithful to me the whole time!”

“When I was using? No. Of course not. I have zero impulse control when I’m high, especially on cocaine. But you were unfaithful while you were sober. So what’s your excuse for _that_?”

_My God, their relationship was toxic_ , _pure fucking poison,_ John thought in horror as he and Violet nearly had their ears pressed again the door now as they continued to listen in. He took a quick peek at Violet’s face. Seeing her thunderstruck expression, he knew she felt the same.

Meanwhile, the battle raged on in the lounge. “Sherlock, that’s all in the past. I’m grown since then. So have you! I’m in my forties now, you’re almost there. That’s all behind us now. I’m looking towards the future. _Our_ future.”

“You are exactly the same as when I had met you in university,” Sherlock cut across him coldly. “A spoilt child who grew up to become a selfish man who only cares about getting what he wants regardless of who he hurts in the process. And a weakling obsessed with appearances, always keeping up with the Joneses, always looking at the neighbors’ greener garden instead of tending to his own.”

“Sherlock, I know your parents cut you off financially,” Victor said evenly. “And I don’t car-”

“Four,” Sherlock said dangerously. “Although, I confess, I lied to you too. I still have access to my trust fund. I also have my own wealth. The consulting detective cases are more lucrative than I imagined they would be. I’ve made some careful, shrewd investments over the years. Here and there during my lucid, sober moments, when I thought it might be good to plan for retirement.”

“Investments? You? But business bores you. What did you invest in?”

“Apple, for one,” Sherlock took his Smartphone out of trousers’ pocket. “I do love my iPhone,” he tossed it up in the air and caught it deftly, “And all its useful little apps. Oh, speaking of apps, Google was a sound investment as well. I’ve been pleased with how that stock is performing. Myspace wasn’t the greatest idea I do admit. Fortunately I had the foresight to sell out before the stock truly took a nosedive. I used the meager profit I had earned, only a couple of thousands, nothing to write home about, and invested in Facebook when it went public.” He tossed his mobile up and caught it again. “Stock markets are ridiculously easy to predict if one takes the time to study and observe the trends. But you aren’t wrong, Victor. Business does bore me, immensely. It’s so predictable.” 

Victor, John and Violet’s mouths all fell open at the same time. If anyone had seen it happen, it would have been funny.

“Holy shit,” Violet whispered. “No wonder he keeps telling me he doesn’t care about money.”

“Jesus…Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock!” Victor yelped. “And you live _here_? In this dump?”

“I like my dump,” Sherlock said tersely. “I have no intentions to move until I’m too old to run after criminals anymore. This means I’ll probably die in here as I’ll never stop solving crimes.”

“Well, that’s… God, Sherlock. That’s… that’s great! You don’t have to depend on Mycroft anymore. That will be more than enough to help me pay for the lawyers to go through that damnable pre-nup.”

“I refuse to help you leave your wife,” Sherlock’s voice was a low, slithering thing. A snake in the grass, waiting for an exposed ankle, “Especially now, knowing what you have done. To me and the people I love.”

“People? Love? You don’t… you said…love’s a chemical defect?”

“You willfully and knowingly put my best friend’s life and my fiancée’s life in danger to get what you wanted,” Sherlock sneered, ignoring how Victor threw his own words back at him.

“You said she really wasn’t your fiancée!”

“Oh, I didn’t know only you were allowed to lie,” Sherlock made exaggerated arm gestures as if he had been profoundly surprised by that revelation. Then he became very still and very serious. “You also unwittingly endangered John’s wife, a dear friend of mine. They also  went after another close friend of mine, who also just happens to be expecting. Due in October. They tried to kill her and the unborn baby, Victor.”

“Wait, what? Baby? _Friends?_ You… you don’t have _friends_.”

“And my mother was to be murdered as well,” if Sherlock was ever compared to a snake, it would be a cobra. His fangs were out; he was poised to strike.

“Your… your mum? No, they weren’t supposed to hurt her, they told m-” too late, he realized he’d said too much. “Oh God, Sherlock, it got out of hand, out of my control, I thought, I tho-”

“You thought wrong. You only thought about yourself.”

Victor took a deep, steadying breath. He held up his hand and said “What I was told… what I was told, was they would only get rid of your girlfriend. They told me she wasn’t what she seemed anyway. That she was actually a criminal who was using you to save her own skin. That it would be doing you a favor to get her out of the way. I didn’t know about the rest of it. About Mrs. Watson, your pregnant friend and most definitely not your mum or John.”

“Five,” Sherlock’s voice could have curdled milk. “Why do you keep lying to me? _Especially when you know I can tell when you do!_ ”

He shouted not because he was losing control. He shouted because he wanted Victor’s absolute attention. When he knew he had it, he purred, “Do you want to know how I do it, my secret? My deductions? Oh, well a good magician never reveals all his magic tricks, but I will tell that your body language has always been a dead give-away.” Sherlock pointed to his nose. “If you have time to prepare a lie, you can put on quite the performance, even fool me. Of course I realize you did fool me because while love may be blind, trust is blind and deaf. But-“ he overemphasized the T in the word “but” as he mimed scratching his nose. “If you have to unexpectedly lie, you scratch or rub your nose. You also look away, usually to the left.”

Victor closed his eyes.

Sherlock closed the distance between them. In Victor’s ear, he murmured, “Do you want to know how I know you’re lying about John? That I know you were fully aware of their plans for my best friend?”

Just like he had years ago with Irene Adler, he reached down and loosely clasped Victor’s wrist.

“I took your pulse. When I visited you in your _pied-à-terre_ and I told you I wanted John to come with us if we moved to New York, your pulse elevated. You were jealous. Are jealous,” Sherlock amended himself. “You were perfectly fine with Rucastle and the Tollers killing Violet and letting John take the blame for her murder.”

Now John gripped Violet’s hand, nearly crushing her fingers. But she only clasped the top of his hand with her other one, hanging on to him as tightly as he held onto to her. Now they clung together like brother and sister, listening to the adults fight, scared to death about what they could hear next.

“The plan was to have me be completely devastated by the dual loss of my fiancée and of my best friend. And you were just going to swoop in and console me. I was supposed to run right back into your waiting arms and forget all of this.” Sherlock swept his arms out, showing Victor his life, his work, his home.

“She doesn’t love you, Sherlock,” Victor grabbed at Sherlock’s jacket. “Not like I do.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock turning away from Victor. 

“They told me she was a bloody terrorist! That she worked for al-Qaeda, she laundered their dirty money for them! That she deserved to die for her crimes!”

“Funny, I thought she was an office PA who tutored children on the side and had an unusual interest in solving crimes. My goodness, I had _no_ idea my fiancée was so interesting,” Sherlock’s lips twitched as he enjoyed his private joke. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward, “Honestly Victor, did you honestly believe that I wouldn’t notice that my fiancée was an internationally wanted terrorist? Please.”  

“Well, I didn’t know John actually meant that much to you. I thought he was just your blogger.”

“Wrong, I told you he was my best friend,” Sherlock’s voice iced up. “That’s Lie Number Six. I wouldn’t recommend trying for Seven.” 

“I have made terrible mistakes, I know. I will do anything to make it up to you.”

“Ohhh… anything?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Very well,” Sherlock paused to bend down and scratch Gladstone’s ears. Victor noticed the lame dog for the first time and jumped.

Gladstone growled.

“Good boy,” Sherlock purred again as he walked to the front door.

He opened it and left it hanging wide open as he walked away.

Victor stared at him wordlessly as Sherlock crossed over to his music stand and violin case. Flipping the case open, he said. “Shut the door behind you, will you? And, oh yes. Don’t ever come back.”

“No, you can’t… you don’t mean that,” Victor gibbered as Sherlock examined his bow.

“You’re getting quite boring now, Victor,” Sherlock started looking for his rosin.

“I love you,” Victor stubbornly tried to hold his ground even though it was apparent it was crumbling. “I have always loved you. I have always tried to come back to you. Even when my family made it impossible for me to be with you, I always found a way.”

“Oh yes. In back alleys, hotel rooms, hostels, living abroad ,” Sherlock started rosining up his bow. “But never in public, never in London. I’m famous now, The Great Undead Detective. How did you plan on hiding me from your religious fanatic family when the world knows my name?”

“I don’t care about my family!”

“Then tell them you’re gay. This instant,” Sherlock pointed at Victor’s trouser pocket with his bow. “Right now. You _love_ me? Prove it. Ring your father and tell him you are a homosexual and you have enjoyed carnal relations with me. Tell him we have  engaged in sodomy and have fellated each other. And you liked it, enjoyed _every minute of it_.” 

Hidden behind the door, John and Violet now felt like they walked in on their parents having sex. John blushed all the way up to his hairline. Violet covered her face with her hand. “This is so awkward,” she whispered, mortified. John nodded rapidly in agreement.

When Victor made no move towards his mobile, Sherlock made a disgusted face and resumed tending to his bow. “I’m supposed to believe you that you love me. You can’t even be honest with yourself. So how could you have ever been truthful with me?”

“I do _love_ you,” Victor made one last stand. “My daughter, Leigh? That’s just a diminutive, a pet name. Her full name is Wilhelmina Sherleigh Trevor. Sherleigh?” His voice was reedy with desperation. “Remember? When we first met? At Oxford? When Bucky bit you and I chased him off, even though I’m scared of dogs,” he gave Gladstone a nervous glance. A growl rumbled from the injured dog’s throat.

Victor shuddered but continued begging, “I had misheard you when you told me your name. I thought you had said Sherly, not Sherlock… so I named her that. Sherleigh.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face rocked Victor to his very core.

It was completely apathetic.

“How unfortunate for her,” he resumed rosining up his bow. “Goodbye Victor.” 

“Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock took his violin out, placed his chin on the rest and started to play _Por una Cabeza._

Victor gaped at him, looking very much like one of the koi fish Violet had vehemently complained about. 

Then all the fight died out of him, as well as the light in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “Sherlock, I am so… so very sorry.”

Sherlock ignored him.

Victor took a shuddering breath, turned and walked out of 221B, a defeated man. Condemned by his own lies, hung by his own noose.

Once Victor shut the door behind him, Sherlock played a bit longer until he was sure Victor was good and gone. Then he opened his eyes, frowning at the door leading up to John’s old rooms.

Still playing, he walked towards the door, frowning.

Standing in front of it, still playing, he inhaled.

Smelt coconut oil.

And John’s good cologne.

_Damn_.

He finished the movement, walking away so John and Violet would hear the music getting softer. Led them into a sense of false security. Once he finished the song, he then tucked the violin under his arm, held his bow in his fist. Took three giant running steps back to the door, threw it open and glowered at the pair of them.

John and Violet smiled serenely up at him.

“I told you,” Sherlock thrust the bow into Violet’s face, nearly tapped her on the nose with it. “I was seeing a client for a private meeting at four o’clock today. I told you I needed the flat to myself.”

“I thought we had an agreement it was pointless to lie to each other?” Violet said angelically, unperturbed by the bow in front of her. But she did reach up and push it down.

“And how were you able to deduce I was seeing Victor today?” he asked acidly, whisking the bow away from her now before she got some mad idea like snatching it and snapping it in two.

“Your voice carried from the bedroom to the living room,” Violet admitted. “I overheard your entire phone conversation last night. Then when you hung up, you started laughing. That’s how I figured out you were going to drop his ass.”

“Oh,” Sherlock flushed and turned away.

“Thought you may want some moral support after telling Victor to take a hike,” John grabbed the banister and hoisted himself up. He held his hand out to Violet and helped her up as well.

“Why?” Sherlock turned around, his face confused.

Violet and John exchanged identical puzzled looks. “Well, ending things can be painful,” John immediately assumed his role as Emotional Translator. “Even ending bad things can hurt,” he added as he hobbled out of the stairwell, Violet following him.

“Oh,” Sherlock mulled this new and interesting information as he made his way to the window where he preferred to play his violin. “Is that why you brought your gun, John? Were you going to shoot him if he hurt my feelings?” his lips quirked up.

“Didn’t exactly rule it out,” John kept his face straight. But his trembling chin gave away a stifled giggle. “I can catch up to him if you like.”

Sherlock chuckled. As he lifted his violin to his shoulder again, Violet asked, “How are you feeling, honestly?”

“Yeah, where are you at with this?” John asked gently. “Talk to us.”

Sherlock paused.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice soft and surprised. “I feel nothing. Not for him,” he put the bow to the strings. “Not anymore,” he added in a stronger voice, the words clipped and cold.

“Are you sure?” John persisted.

“Leave it alone John,” Sherlock’s eyes flashed at him. Then he lowered his instrument. “Why would I care about someone who wanted you in prison and Violet in the ground, just to keep me to himself, his little dirty secret,” The tiniest spasm of hurt creased his face now. A true blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “I always wondered if he would stop being embarrassed by me.”

The split-second of vulnerability absurdly moved John. He swallowed a lump in his throat and made a move towards Sherlock. But Violet was closer.

She reached out with her left hand, the diamond ring glinting in the sunlight. She reached up and grasped his coat sleeve with her fingertips. Sherlock sighed and lowered his violin and bow. As he pressed his forehead to hers, John noticed just how very beautiful they looked together. His jet black curls and her chestnut waves. His alabaster skin and her cheeks freckled like a plover’s egg. His eerie, ever-changing blue-green-golden eyes and hers a constant amber-green hazel. Even the contrast of his formal, slim-cut suits and her t-shirts and bootcut jeans seemed to fit together. Bathed in the afternoon light, they looked like they belonged together.

And John felt a hot, swooping sick feeling low in his gut. Something that felt like… jealousy.

He stoutly reminded himself he had always wanted Sherlock to find someone. So he wouldn’t be alone. So parasitic twats like Victor and The Woman would stop using him and draining him.

And that he himself had a gorgeous, fascinating, slightly mad and more-than-slightly-dangerous wife. A wife he loved very much. A wife who risked everything, including their marriage, to find their missing child.

A wife he had made love to three times to today, thank-you-very-much-by-the-way- _I’m-not-gay_.

Feeling like a third wheel as well, John cleared his throat.

“I think we’re making John uncomfortable,” Sherlock rumbled.

Violet gave Sherlock a quick hug, as was her way. While “Miss Smith” was reserved and stand-offish, Violet Hunter was always a bit more touchy-feely. Not in an invasive sort of a way, but she was a hugger and a hand-holder, John noticed.

He also noticed Sherlock was learning to tolerate it. The bubbling hot not-quite-jealous feeling swelled in his gut again.

“Not uncomfortable,” John muttered. “The whole ‘Today’s the Day You Say You’re Gay to Your Dad’ speech you gave to Victor, _that_ made me uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, that was weird and awesome all the same time,” Violet admitted.

“Oh, if I would have deduced sooner you two were eavesdropping, I would have made that bit far more graphic,” Sherlock said devilishly.

“Oh God,” John grimaced as Violet made a gagging sound and stuck out her tongue.

“Victor had never been opposed to experimenting. One time, we-”

“STOP,” John ordered him while Violet clapped her hands over her ears and started chanting “Not listening! La la la la.”

Sherlock batted his eyelashes. “Serves you two right for snooping.”

“Seriously though, Sherlock,” Violet rubbed his arm, looking up into his eyes again, encircling his wrist with her fingers.

John looked at the floor.

“Was it always like that?” she asked the detective.

“Like what?”

“The cheating and the drugs and the lies… was it always that bad? With Victor?”

Sherlock wetted his upper lip. There was still a scab where Lestrade had split his lower lip. His eyes clouded over, looking bluish-grey as he retreated into his mind-palace…

**

6 November 1994  
Crowley Road, Oxford  
Sunday morning  
1:15 AM

“Sherlock, Sherlock!”

Sherlock tried to pretend he didn’t hear Sebastian Wilkes calling his name. He nearly got away with it too, the noise people called music blared at an ear-shattering volume.

He acted like he was going to the gents, but Seb blocked his path. He had a leggy blonde hanging on his arm. She wore a stupid pink jumper that didn’t reach down to her mid-riff. She also wore a sparkly skin-tight vinyl skirt, anklet socks that would have suited a little girl instead of a grown woman and black high heels that reminded Sherlock of the fancy shoes his granny used to wear to church, when his family still went to church.

In fact, those shoes may very well have belonged to someone’s granny. They looked like she found them at a jumble sale.

He thought the blonde looked like an idiot.

He also thought Seb looked an idiot, wearing a striped jumper and baggy torn jeans that threatened to slide off his arse at any minute.

“Sherly, this is Laverne,” Seb beamed, as if he was giving Sherlock a Christmas present early. “Get it? Laverne and Sherly?” He laughed at his own stupid joke.

“I don’t get it,” Sherlock looked at Seb blankly.

“You know… _Laverne and Shirley_? The old American TV show? Never mind,” Seb sighed as Sherlock continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly. “I think you two should get to know each other,” he shouted over the blaring music as he pushed Laverne towards Sherlock.

Sherlock took a step back. “I think you’re wrong,” he stammered.

“Aw, you’re right, Sebbie, he’s adorable,” Laverne cooed. “Like a scared baby bunny he is.”

Sherlock’s face did not resemble a scared baby bunny at all. More like an irate alley cat.

“Sorry, but I’m just leaving,” he growled but no one heard him over the thumping bass.

“Oh gosh, I almost forgot my handbag,” Laverne shouted over the music. “Be back in a tick.”

As she sauntered off back to her gaggle of friends, (who were dressed just as stupidly as she was), Seb clinked the pint Sherlock held. Beer sloshed over Sherlock’s hand. He had only taken two sips of the lager and found he couldn’t stand the taste.

“She’s the town bicycle, that one,” Seb yelled into Sherlock’s ear as threw his arm over Sherlock’s thin shoulders.

“What?” Sherlock started desperately looking for Victor, who had dragged him out on this abysmal pub crawl in the first place. 

He had planned on a nice, quiet night in. But around nine o’clock, Victor popped his head in his dorm room and announced “Pub crawl, Crowley Road. Five minutes. You’re going,”

A flush of pleasure had warmed Sherlock. He hadn’t expected Victor to invite him to go out. Sure, they shared their meals together and spent most evenings together as Sherlock tutored Victor in the subjects he struggled in. They hung out on campus on the weekends during the day. But they had never really gone out before, not at night.

But he hadn’t expected to see a gang of upper classmen waiting for him either, especially that smug cockhead, Sebastian Wilkes. He had tried to weasel out of going, but Victor slung his arm over his shoulder and told him, “You’re not spending Bonfire Night hiding in your room, nose in a book, drinking cold tea.”

So Sherlock had allowed himself to be dragged from pub to pub. He had just started enjoying himself at the Flowers and Co. Brewery, listening to the barkeep about the brewing process when Seb shouted it was time for another pub. Reluctantly, Sherlock paid for the porter he had only drunk a quarter of then trudged after the rest of the lads to the next pub. And the next. And the next. The entire crawl had been loud and dreadful. He had longed for his quiet little dorm room, his bed and his books. He had no desire to be at any of the pubs, to be out with these lads. The only objective seemed to be to get as drunk as possible and try and chat up girls in hopes they’d be  either daft enough or drunk enough (or both) for a quick grope in the car park or a shag in a dirty loo.

How unappealing.

He’d rather stayed in with his books and his cold tea… especially since Victor hadn’t talked to him all evening.

The only reason he had come along was because Victor had asked him.

But whenever Sherlock tried to catch up with him, Victor had always ending up talking and drinking with someone else, usually a pretty girl. That only served to remind Sherlock how very stupid it was to feel the way he did about Victor. And now the night had become progressively worse since Seb decided to be nice and find a girl for Sherlock to chat up.

“Town bicycle?” Seb was trying to explain to him as Sherlock still desperately trying to catch Victor’s eye in hopes he’d extricate him from this embarrassing situation. “Jesus, Sherl, for a genius, you’re awfully thick sometimes. _She’ll let anyone ride her_.”

“Um… oh,” Sherlock said lamely, cottoning on that Seb was talking about sex.

“Can’t hang onto your cherry forever,” he clapped Sherlock on the back, making him spill more of his beer. “Have fun,” he added as Laverne came back towards them, wobbling on her idiotic high heels, a dinky handbag hanging over her wrist.

“Hi gorgeous,” Laverne cooed in his ear. “Going to buy a girl a drink?”

“Why?” These social conventions baffled Sherlock. Besides, this Town Bicycle didn’t need any more drink. Her breath smelt like sour ale and her eyes were dilated. 

“’Cause that’s what  guys do to be nice to girls,” she continued to coo like a pigeon as she traced her finger up and down his chest.

“Um… I’m not really very nice,” Sherlock squirmed as she snuggled into him, making him spill more of his beer.

“Oh, are you a bad boy, Sherly,” she teased, pressing her breasts into his chest.

He swallowed. He wanted to get away… but she felt nice too. Really nice…

“Sherlock,” he corrected her. “My name’s Sherlock, not Sherly.”

She took his pint and downed half of it. Putting the sticky glass on a nearby table, she slurred “Well, if you don’t want to drink, do you want to dance? Do you like dancing?”

“I do,” Sherlock admitted and immediately started worrying she was far too drunk to try any sort of waltz or tango. Plus this didn’t seem to be the type of establishment that encouraged ballroom dancing. Didn’t need to be a genius to observe _that_.

“Oh good,” she tossed her blond hair back. “I like dancing too. I like it a lot,” she pressed her lips against his throat and slid her hands up and down his back as she pressed her hips flush to his. She dragged her lacquered nails down his back and a shiver shot up his spine. “I think I like you,” she lightly flicked his ear lobe with her tongue.  Then she cupped his arse, giving it a squeeze as she ground her pelvis against his, moving to the beat of the music.

“Ah, wait,” Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. He reached behind him, plucked her hands off his backside. He held her hands in a way he hoped was gentlemanly. He had no point of reference for this situation.

Laughing, she wrestled her hands out of his and looped them around his neck. “I thought you said you liked dancing,” she gazed up into his face in a way she thought was seductive as she continued to grind against him.

“That’s not dancing,” Sherlock stammered, trying to get away from her.

She clung to him like an insect on fly-paper. “Aw, don’t be shy. I don’t bite,” she leaned forward and huffed into his ear, “Unless you want me to,” now she nibbled on his ear lobe as her hand slid down his body again, groping the front of his jeans instead of the back. “Mm, and I think you want me to, don’t you?” She cradled his hardness in her experienced hand. “You really are a bad boy, aren’t you, _Sherlock_.”

A wave of hot, sick nausea crashed over Sherlock.

His body suddenly remembered other hands, touching him… _there_.

_You can’t tell anyone William… if you do, they’ll just call you a liar and a bad boy… and I’ll kill Mickey for tattling on me. I really will. I’ll kill him in his sleep at school and it will be All Your Fault, you bad, dirty boy…_

Sherlock shoved the girl off of him and stalked away as his face broke out in a cold sweat.

“Hey!” Laverne shouted after him, “You arsehole!”

“Shut up, slut,” Victor had been watching the scene from across the dance hall and desperately been fighting his way through the crowd to rescue Sherlock. He had made it just as Sherlock slipped away and a bouncer had shown up.

“He pushed me!” Laverne pointed at Sherlock’s retreating back.

“She’s dead drunk,” Victor yelled into the bouncer’s ear. “And everyone knows she’s the Town Bicycle. She’s throwing a tantrum because my friend didn’t want to catch HIV from her.”

Recognizing him from their English Lit course, Laverne spat out, “Fuck you, Trevor.”

“Not even with another man’s cock, La,” he sneered.

“Alright, alright, get out of here and tell your friend not to come back,” the bouncer inserted himself between Victor and Laverne.

“That’s not going to hurt his feelings any,” Victor said but his parting shot was drowned out by the techno beat. He shot Seb and the rest of the gang a filthy look as he went to retrieve his coat and scarf. 

Buttoning up his coat and draping his uni scarf over his shoulders, he looked left and right. To his relief, saw Sherlock only a half a block away. He walked quickly, probably trying to find the nearest bus stop as soon as possible. It had gotten damnably cold.

“Sherly? Oi, Sherlock, wait up.”

Sherlock turned and his heart skipped a beat upon seeing Victor jogging to catch up to him. The sharp cold had cleared his head. Once he had escaped that hot, unpleasant night club, he managed to pull himself together. His head still hurt but the nausea was gone.

For now.

“You OK?” Victor huffed when he caught up with him.  

“Yeah, ‘course I’m fine,” Sherlock looked at his dirty Converse trainers. “Just wasn’t having any fun, that’s all. Thought I’d scarper, not a big deal.”

“Without telling me?” Victor gave Sherlock one of his charming smiles. When Sherlock didn’t reciprocate, Victor ran his hand through his golden hair and looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, mate. I knew you hate shit like this. I really wasn’t ignoring you, I’m sorry if it seemed like I was. I really wanted to stay in tonight and watch videos or something with you but the boys had invited me to the pub crawl before I got a chance to see what you were up to.”

“It’s fine, really,” Sherlock turned to start walking again. “No worries, Victor.”

“It’s not fine. I know you don’t like places like  pubs and nightclubs but I didn’t want to leave you out. Actually I wanted to stay longer at Flowers and Co., or go somewhere where we could have a decent conversation, could actually hear each other speak. But,” he shrugged. “Seb’s desperate to throw a leg over something, anything tonight. So meat market it was.”

As they walked, two girls wearing Guy Fawkes masks, black Halloween capes, flowered baby doll dresses and platform heels stumbled past them, giggling and clinging to each other, obviously inebriated. 

“Remember, remember boys!” They sang out in chorus at Victor and Sherlock then giggled. 

Victor laughed and saluted the pissed girls, singing out, “Remember, remember! The fifth of November. The Gunpowder treason and plot; I know of no reason, why the Gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!”

Meanwhile, Sherlock muttered sourly. “It’s well past midnight. It’s the Sixth of November now. No point in repeating that stupid poem.”

As the giggling masked girls staggered away, Victor asked, “You don’t like Bonfire Night much, do you?”

“My ancestors were Catholic sympathizers so not particularly,”  

“Really?” Victor sounded intrigued, as he always did whenever Sherlock let something of his personal life slip. “Is your family still Catholic?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They converted when the Virgin Queen convinced them their heads would be more useful on their shoulders than on a spike. The ones who didn’t…well,” Sherlock drew his finger across his neck, “Obviously.”

“But you’re not religious now? I mean, I never see you at chapel.”

Sherlock shrugged a skinny shoulder. “Religion is illogical,” he muttered, digging his hands into his leather jacket, wishing he had Remembered Remembered gloves on this Fifth of November.

The temperature had plummeted and Sherlock did not dress for the November chill. He wore his usual t-shirt, flannel shirt and leather jacket combination. His uni scarf was wound around his throat. His jeans were not artfully torn like Seb’s, but they were old and worn, the turn-ups frayed. He had only thin socks and his beloved cloth Converse trainers.

“And boring,” he added as an afterthought as he started to walk faster.

“Hey, wait, stop,” Victor put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Of course Victor had gloves, nice ones. Leather. He looked like a poster boy for the university. A thick, warm black pea coat, under which he wore a preppy cream colored cable-knit jumper. He wore dark jeans and heavy black Doc Marten boots. His uni scarf hung draped casually over his shoulders and the back of his neck. “

“Victor, I’m cold,” Sherlock complained. “I’m cold and tired and would like to get back to uni, if you don’t mind,” he added as flakes of snow started to cascade down.

Perfect. Now he could freeze to death waiting for the bus.

“Look, I saw him taking Laverne to you,” Victor threw caution to the wind. “I heard him earlier tonight, at the first pub, taking the piss out of you for being a virgin. He probably thought he was being friendly,” Victor sighed, “Trying to make up for acting like a cock. Thought introducing you to that slag would make it up to you.”

But Sherlock knew better. Had observed what the other boys were doing while he had been frantically looking around for Victor. “They set me up with her for a laugh,” he hated how tears suddenly stung his eyes. He decided to blame the cold breeze for his eyes watering up, “Wanted to watch me make a fool of myself.”

Victor decided to have a word with Seb as soon as possible. “Ignore him, he’s a twat.”

“I know that,” Sherlock bowed his head. He jammed his cold hands in his pockets and started walking again, faster.

But Victor caught up to him again easily enough, “Hey, what is it? It’s not just Seb, is it?”  When Sherlock only quickened his pace, Victor said “The only reason I put up with Seb,” Victor kept up with Sherlock who walked very fast now as the snow fluttered down. “Is my father is friends with his father. If it wasn’t for that, I’d have told the prick to fuck off years ago. He was an arse in nursery school and is an arse now.”

“My brother had a boy foisted on him like that too. Same age, our parents were friends with his parents…” his voice shook violently as his stomach started to cramp again.

“Hey, wait, stop,” Victor repeated himself, but this time he grabbed Sherlock by the coat sleeves and forced him to turn and face him. “I said, stop,” he said gently. “Wow, Seb really got to you tonight, didn’t he?”

“It wasn’t Seb, not really,” he whispered. “Not directly.”   

“I don’t… understand?”

“The girl,” Sherlock said desperately. “Seb told her dance with me.”

“Yeah, I know, I saw the whole thing. Look, if that was some sort of prank, I’ll sort it out. Just because I have to tolerate his existence doesn’t mean I’m going to stand around and allow him to treat my friends like crap.”

“He treated her like a whore,” Sherlock’s voice cracked on the last word.

“She is a whore.”

But Sherlock shook his head, realizing he had misspoke, that he wasn’t explaining himself very well. “He treated her like she was just some doll or toy he could pass around his friends. Like… like she wasn’t a person, just a plaything for anybody to do whatever he wanted to do to him.”

“Him?” Victor gave his head a slight shake.

“ _Her_ ,” Sherlock closed his eyes, cursing his Freudian slip. “I meant her. I don’t feel well. I drank too much. I need to go to bed.”

“Sherlock,” Victor kept his eyes trained on his face. Saw how Sherlock’s pupils were pinpricks, not dilated. “You barely drank all night.”

“Maybe I’m getting ill,” Sherlock started trembling all over now and not from the cold. 

“Sherlock,” Victor said steadily. “You said _him_.” When Sherlock didn’t say anything, just shrank away from Victor’s touch, he asked him, “ _Are_ you a virgin?”

“I’ve never been with a girl, isn’t that the definition of virginity? It is to my brother at least.”

“Mycroft’s a moron,” Victor snorted, hoping to make Sherlock smile. Mocking Mycroft usually got a small grin from him. This time, Sherlock only wriggled out of Victor’s grip,

“Just forget it, Victor. Forget I said anything. Just leave it alone.”

As Sherlock started walking away, Victor called out, “No,” and ran after him. He didn’t grab at him but he did cut him off, blocking his path. “No, I will not leave this alone. Something is obviously, seriously wrong. You’re barely holding it together. Tell me. What’s going on?”  

Sherlock felt positive he was going to be sick all over the pavement, “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” Victor smiled.” We’re friends.”

“You won’t be,” now Sherlock felt the threat of tears becoming more powerful, which was just perfect. Yes, marvelous way to end the evening. A panic attack, freezing to death, vomiting all over the expensive boots of his crush and then crying like a baby. Remember, remember the fifth of November indeed… “Not if I tell you, you won’t be. You’ll be repelled by me.”

“Why? Did you kill someone?”

“Almost,” Sherlock whispered.

“What?” Victor looked gobsmacked but he didn’t run for the hills. “Well, then you must tell me.”

And the floodgates opened. Sherlock found himself spilling the whole sordid tale to Victor. Not that he went into any great detail about the abuse. Nor did he disclose the name of his abuser. But he told him about Mycroft’s betrayal and his parents’ decision to cover it up. And his theories why he felt utterly lost when it came to his own sexuality.

Sherlock could feel the tears freezing on his cheeks, but he didn’t care. He doubted he could feel any more humiliated than he did right now.

“I don’t think,” Victor finally said slowly, “I have hated someone so much as I do right now.” 

Sherlock lowered his head. “I told you so.”

“What? No! Not you, you dolt!”

Sherlock jerked his head up, “What?”

“Not you. The bastard who raped you,” when Sherlock flinched, Victor shook his head. “It’s just a word, not the act itself. Don’t let a _word_ control your life.”

Sherlock nodded, his throat too tight to talk.

“I hate him, I hate your parents and I fucking hate your brother,” Victor ground his teeth. “How could he have stood by and let that happen to you? Oh, I know what you just told me,” Victor cut Sherlock off before he could even speak. “You know what that is? A load of shit, that’s what it is. He abandoned you when you needed him the most.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock croaked. “I don’t even know anymore. But do you see what it’s done to me? I can’t decide between fancying boys and fancying girls. I kind of like both, I do like both,” his cheeks burned with shame. “But that’s wrong, I know that’s wrong. It’s against all laws of nature, a deviation of the norm. I’ve studied every book I could get my hands on about biology and human anatomy and reproduction. What happened to me, what _he_ did to me, made me a freak. It made me…”

“It did not make you bisexual,” Victor told him firmly yet patiently.

“What?”

Victor smiled. “You really were sheltered, weren’t you, Posh Boy? Let me guess, your dad handed you a little pamphlet dated from the 1950’s, made some awkward comments about wet dreams and then told you to wear a rubber so you don’t get a girl up the duff and that was your birds and bees talk?”

“Um,” Sherlock was not used to people deducing him, “Yeah. Not the most informative of talks.”

“That’s how my old man handled my Sex Talk too, only he added some crazy religious psychobabble. Thought I was going to hell when I had my first wet dream,” he grinned.

“I don’t believe in hell,” Sherlock muttered.

“Me either. And I don’t believe we choose who we love,” Victor said firmly. “Sorry to break it to you mate but something in your DNA programmed you to swing both ways.”

The scientific talk soothed Sherlock’s jittery nerves. “I never considered that hypothesis,” he mused. “I’d need to conduct some sort of experiment. I’d need a control group and…”

“Or you could just ask,” Victor said lightly. “I’m gay and nobody ever buggered me as a kid.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re…”

“Yeah.”

“But you always have loads of girls flittering around you like butterflies.”

“Well, I like pretty things and girls are pretty,” he admitted. “But I’m into guys. And I’ve fancied you since we’ve first met.”

“You… what? Me? But… but… I’m…”

_Broken…_

“Brilliant,” Victor said firmly. “Your intelligence, your imagination, it blows me away. I can’t understand why someone as smart as you even wants to spend time with a dunce like me.”

“But you’re not stupid,” Sherlock blurted out. “You’re interesting. You make me laugh when I’m taking myself far too seriously. You make me try things I normally wouldn’t. You’re…” his breath caught as he drank in the sight of Victor all golden and obsidian against the slowly swirling snow. “Kind,” he finally finished. “You’re kind to me. You don’t make me feel like I’m out of the ordinary. No one has ever made me feel that way…”

_Except Ford_. The brother that went away and left Sherlock with the hateful brother who stayed. 

“You are though,” Victor closed the space between them. “You’re extraordinary. You’re a genius and so yet so endearingly unaware of yourself. I wish I had a camera so I could show you how amazing you look right now. How the snowflakes are sparkling in your coal black curls.”

“Oh. Well, when you say things like that Victor, it’s rather obvious you’re gay.” Sherlock now wondered how he could have missed this now glaringly obvious fact.

Sherlock thought he should have been able to deduce this, especially when Victor said: “I’ve never hidden it. Not from my friends anyway, but cocks like Seb don’t need to know my private business. I just,” he shrugged. “Don’t advertise it. But I don’t lie about it either.”

“What about your father?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking.

“Oh,” Victor’s eyes lowered. “He thought he could pray away the gay. Then he thought he could beat it out of me. Now we just don’t talk about it. I act straight. He acts like he believes me.” He shrugged. “He’s an old man. Dad’s loads older than Mum. He’ll die soon and good riddance.” He smiled at Sherlock. “You’re shivering. You’re freezing to death.”

“An apt observation,” Sherlock’s teeth chattered.

Victor stood even closer to him, as close as he could without touching him. Sherlock felt his heart starting to race.

“I hate how that bastard robbed you of your first time,” he whispered. “It’s not like that, Sherlock, I promise. It’s nothing like what you went through as a kid. That’s not sex anyway. That’s torture. I just wanted you to know, especially, you know, even if you don’t feel the same about me as I do you and we don’t… you know… I mean… I just wanted you to know.” 

“I do feel the same,” Sherlock could barely get the words out, “About you. And… and, he…he didn’t steal my first kiss.”

“Oh,” Victor put his arms around him. Sherlock didn’t feel threatened, not like he did when Laverne had pawed at him. Tentatively, he put his hands on Victor’s waist.

“Can I be your first?” Victor breathed, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s.

“God, yes,” Sherlock said before he could help himself.

He closed his eyes just as Victor pressed his mouth to his. A thousand sensations flooded his body, threatening to overload his system. _This_ … he had never felt like this before. This mouth-to-mouth transfer of affection and desire, yes _desire_. Something repressed and beaten down climbed its way back up from the forgotten depths of his soul, taking residence in his heart.

There was no shame this time when he felt the twitches and tingling again in his crotch.

He gripped Victor’s waist tighter as Victor started carding his fingers through his curls.

Growing bolder, he parted his lips just a bit. A new jolt of electric excitement rushed through him as Victor’s tongue darted inside his mouth, slowly exploring him. Tasting him. So Sherlock tasted Victor back and it was nothing like he had imagined. It was better. 

Sherlock felt his bones dissolving, the snow melting off his hot skin.

The eighteen year old boy could have happily died right on the spot.

Victor was the first to stop the kissing. “Sorry,” he huffed, laughing a little. “Need to breathe.”

“Breathing’s boring.” 

Victor laughed and embraced him tight. He whispered in his ear, “I think you and I should spend the Christmas hols here instead of with our dreadful families. Hm? Take-away and snogging instead of Christmas goose and judgmental relatives?”

“That…” Sherlock pressed his cheek against Victor’s, “Is the best gift anyone has given me.”

Victor rubbed slow, lazy circles around Sherlock’s back. “And you should stay in my dorm tonight. I won’t ask you to do anything you’re not ready for, just… I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up tomorrow.”

Sherlock grew braver and ran his hand over Victor’s golden hair, shocked and delighted by its softness. “Me too. I want to be the first thing you see in the morning too.”

“Wanker,” Victor laughed and kissed his cheek. Reluctantly, he broke the embrace, but put his arm over Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him close. “C’mon. Forget the bus. Let’s get a cab before we freeze our bollocks off.”

The cold seeping back into his fingers and toes, Sherlock eagerly agreed. Together, they braved the snow, already planning their futures.

Sherlock knew he’d never forget this Bonfire Night.

**

31 August 2015  
221B Baker street  
Monday afternoon   
4:45 PM

“Oh no,” Sherlock smiled dreamily. “No. It wasn’t all bad, my dear Violet. For my thirtieth birthday, Victor took me sky-diving.”

Violet and John exchanged confused looks just as there was a tap on the door. “Yoo-hoo, Sherlock?”

“Ah, tea,” Sherlock put his bow and violin down, “John, text Mary. Tell her not to worry about cooking tonight. Have her come without delay. We’re going out. Angelo’s. I wish to consume my body weight in pasta.”

“What?” John blinked.

“The cases are solved and I’m starving,” he proclaimed, strutting off to let Mrs. Hudson in.

John gave Violet one of his characteristic “What just happened?” looks. Violet merely shook her head and threw her hands up in the classic sign of defeat. Then she gave him a hug.

They watched Sherlock open the door and take the tea tray from Mrs. Hudson. “Take care of him, Violet,” John murmured.

_I have no choice._ She kept her face averted from John’s eyes.

_I have to protect him from your wife._

“I will,” she pecked him on the cheek. “I promise.”


	31. The Violin and Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What,” the Earl started to pace, albeit painfully slow. “Was the fucking point of The Copper Beaches, if not to contain William, then what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave comments, leave kudos and heck, just reading this ridiculously huge story! Also huge thanks to cadoganwest and arielrose for taking the time to Brit-pick, fix my terrible grammar, pointing out continuity errors and OOC actions and generally answering weird questions. :^)
> 
> I've eight chapters of the rough draft of Part Three written and am trying to finish a short Molly-centric fic... BUT without further ado... here is the last chapter. THANK YOU again for reading!

Chapter Thirty-one:

2 September 2015  
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington DC  
Wednesday morning  
10:01 AM

Senator Josiah Woodhouse threw a copy of the _Daily Mail_ on the desk of Deputy Director Barton Marshall. “Why the _hell_ is this woman still alive?”

Deputy Director Marshall, a solemn-faced African-American man, lifted his graying eyebrows  as his mouth turned down in a frown.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start meetings by throwing tabloids on my desk and making demands, Senator,” he said coolly, adjusting his silver wire-rimmed glasses.   
  
Next to the Deputy Director stood Section Chief Adrienne Melrose, his unofficial go-to person and a true “Steel Magnolia” if there ever was one. She was thin as a reed, eyes huge and cornflower blue and with a cream-white complexion that defied her fifty years of age. Her Georgia-born-and-bred was still as thick as molasses and her backbone was made of pure titanium.

 Ironically, Section Chief Melrose had taken over Section Chief Robert “Bear” Carson’s old division after he and his entire team had gotten burned.

Now she studied a blurry picture of the last known survivor of the disastrous 2008 International Abduction Conference. She put her reading glasses on and smoothed back her sleek, bronzed colored hair. “Who’s that supposed to be?” she asked, her drawl sweet as honey. But what she said was anything but sweet, “That’s a shitty picture. Face recognition software won’t pick anything up.” She paused. “Cute dress, though. I like the color.”

Senator Woodhouse glowered at her. “You both know that’s former Special Agent Violet Hunter. You know the Holmes Family has been sheltering her.”

“No,” Section Chief Melrose dropped the sugary sarcasm, “We don’t know that. And we don’t have the resources to spare to investigate.”

“So, that’s it? You’re not even going to try and apprehend this treacherous bitch?”

 “Hunter’s not even on the Top One Hundred, much less the Top Ten List,” Melrose gritted her teeth, tired of this on-going argument with Woodhouse. Ever since May, he had been insisting Violet Hunter was alive and well in London. It was getting harder and harder to blow him off.

“She’s a known terrorist,” Woodhouse snarled at her.  

“Then talk to your cronies in Congress and get us some more funding,” Melrose retorted. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment.”

“She helped hack into the Pentagon’s computer systems by using VICAP as a backdoo-”

“Seven years ago,” Melrose again cursed the moronic voters who re-elected this jackass last year. “Whatever intel she _allegedly_ stole is obsolete.” 

“The theft was a fact. Carson and his team were selling state secrets to the enemy. Secrets that got American soldiers killed!”

“Then they should have been brought back to the States and faced trial,” Melrose snapped. “Did it ever cross your mind the hell that can be unleashed if the hackvists would ever get a hold of what really happened to Carson’s team in ’08?”

Senator Woodhouse pursed his lips.

He knew what was _supposed_ to happen back in May 2008.

The team was supposed to be burned and his nephew Jack Woodley was supposed to pick them off one by one, save Carson and Hunter. Those two were the only assets, the kernels amongst the chaff. If Jack was unable to convince them to join the _Rouge_ , then he was supposed to terminate them.

But Hunter and her partner got away.

_And killed Jack_ , he impotently fumed.

And the information she had wasn’t obsolete.

Because she didn’t steal it from VICAP or the Pentagon.

Jim Moriarty _gave_ it to her.

No one realized she could crush the world with what she knew.

Not even the Holmes brothers.

He ground his teeth. He knew that The Copper Beaches plan wasn’t going to work. He knew it in his bones. A sniper would have been faster and easier.

But that wasn’t the _Rouge’s_ way. A lesson had to be taught.

They had to rebuild the reputation the younger Holmes brother had torn asunder.

And vengeance had to be served for Jim Moriarty’s murder.

Plus, to be honest with himself, he wanted revenge as well. Jack had been like a son to him.

“So you’re just going to ignore this?” he shouted, “A known terrorist, a _traitor_ , walking free?”

Marshall took off his glasses off now and ran his hand down his face. “Here are the facts of life, Joss,” he folded his hands on his desk. “Your special interest buddies got our funding cut. We just don’t have the money to chase down one woman. One woman, Joss, _one_. As opposed to armies who want to annihilate our way of life. This _one woman_ has lived quietly under the radar for the last seven years, and has recently gotten engaged to a member of a prominent and wealthy British family. Money talks, Joss. I can’t go in, guns blazing, making the kinds of accusations you are, with only a blurry picture from a Brit trash tab as proof.”

“We are in a war,” Woodhouse pressed his finger on the top of Marshall’s desk.

“We’ve been in a war since 2001. We’ve got all sorts of terrorists breathing down our necks. Taliban, al-Qaeda, ISIL, for starters. Relations are still tense between Russia and the Ukraine. God only knows what fresh hell North Korea is dreaming up now. Not to mention the problems in our own backyard. The borders, illegal immigration, drugs, race riots, everything’s a shit storm and to clean up after the wake, we need money, which your pals won’t give us. We’re fighting the world, Joss,” he intoned as he pushed the _Daily Mail_ back towards Woodhouse. “We don’t give a shit about one woman.”

Woodhouse snatched up the magazine. “This isn’t over.”

“Yeah, it is,” Melrose chimed in. “Deputy Director Hammermill’s been indicted.” She enjoyed watching Woodhouse turn whey-faced.

Hammermill had signed off on the order to burn Carson’s team when they went to England.

“Tax evasion,” Melrose helpfully explained. “He’s going to Big Boy Prison, I guarantee it.”

“Leave this alone, Joss,” Marshall murmured, putting his glasses back on.

Once Woodhouse stumbled out of his office, Marshall turned to Melrose, “Call Holmes.”

“Yes sir,” she didn’t need to be told twice.

She checked the time difference on her cell phone. It’d be a little after four o’clock across the pond. Her heels clacked loudly on the tiled floor as she started texting. Letting Mycroft know to expect her call shortly.

Once in her office, she dialed from memory Mycroft Holmes’ direct number on a secure line.

“My dear Annie,” his unctuous voice immediately rang in her ear, “To what I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“No pleasure, Myc,” she pulled her heels off and let the shoes drop underneath her desk. “Woodhouse’s sniffing around Hunter again. Tabloid got a picture of her. Not a great picture, face recognition software wouldn’t pick anything up but you can tell it’s her if you squint.”

“I see.”

“Look, you know I wasn’t born yesterday. I know these accusations of treason are bullshit. We just don’t have a goddamn thing to prove she’s innocent. If they snag her and drag her back here, she’s not going to get a fair trial, you know that.”

“I do believe, my dear Annie, the world is aware of the Draconian methods America employs for handling captured terrorists.”

“Not in the mood for your criticisms today, Myc.”

“Who’s criticizing?” Mycroft sounded genuinely hurt.

Melrose smiled but her voice brooked no nonsense: “Level with me. Hunter’s been off the radar for years. OK, she allegedly got in over her head with True IRA, but other than that, she’s been like a ghost. We both know who bought Woodhouse’s re-election and it wasn’t the Koch Brothers. Why is the _Rouge_ so hellbent on getting their hands on her now?”

There was a long, drawn out sigh on the other end of the phone, on the other end of the world. “It is believed she killed an associate of theirs, the rumor being it was the good Senator Woodhouse’s nephew, Jack Woodley.”

“That’s it? I mean, now I get it why Woodhouse’s pissed and I know the Rouge takes retribution seriously. But they don’t want her dead. They want _her_.” 

“Indeed. They also believe she took something of Jim Moriarty’s and they want it back.”

“Something? Like what?”

“Information.”

“What _kind_ of information, Myc?” Melrose felt herself being drawn into their same-old tango, dancing in circles, never really getting close enough to make a connection.

Sure enough, Mycroft merely purred “My dear Annie, you do realize Jim Moriarty was mad, don’t you? He convinced my brother he had this master computer code that could allow him to hack into any computer system. In reality, he paid off security guards and prison guards to open the doors to the Bank of England, the Tower and the prison.”

“So the Rouge is chasing after a ghost because of a story based off of smoke and mirrors?”

“It appears to be so.”

Melorse didn’t buy it but she knew Mycroft was not being very forthcoming. She had a feeling she knew why too. She took a shot in the dark and asked: “Were you able to stop up the leaks at MI-6?”

In the office of the penthouse that was his official London home across, Mycroft picked up the manila folder Sherlock had just left for him off his fine mahogany desk. On the front of the folder was a sticky note that read “Told you so.”

“We did discover a double agent within the ranks. Agent Margery Jenson AKA Maggie Jenner AKA Margaux Vos-”

“Wait, hold up, Margaux Vos? _The_ Margaux Vos? The Dutch informant?”

“The one and the same. Freelancing for the _Rouge_ as well as for us, I’m afraid.”

“Status?”

“Terminated. But not by us.”

“Who?”

“Another freelancer,” Mycroft ground his teeth as he always did when he thought about Mary Watson, “Unauthorized hit.”

“God, this just gets better and better,” Melrose rubbed her forehead. “No wonder I’m going gray. Was Vos the MI-6 mole though?”

“No, her security clearance wasn’t that high. Agent Jenson’s only assignment was protection detail to Molly Lestrade nee Hooper. Because of her role in the Lazarus Mission, you see.”

“Right, the Fall. How’s your brother? Still a can of mixed nuts?”

“Sherlock is Sherlock,” Mycroft said dryly.

“What about Baby Girl Watson?”

“Still missing,” Mycroft’s voice tightened with anger. “Until the mole is routed out, I’m not permitted to know any more than that. My security clearance has been restricted. I’ve also been told I’m “too close” to the matter. They assume because John Watson is my brother’s partner, I’m on friendly terms with John.” He smiled a thin, bitter smile to himself. Then he went on: “But we do have confirmation that Marissa Watson was definitely still alive sometime in March 2015. Beyond that, only speculation, I’m afraid.”

“Keep your umbrella close, Myc,” Melrose drawled. “Storm’s coming from the East.”

“And it’s blowing towards the West,” Mycroft rang off. 

 He glared at Sherlock’s gloating post-it note and ripped it off the thick folder and binned it. He looked at his treadmill and decided against it.

He put his suit jacket back on, smoothed it down as he walked towards the office door. He unlocked it and locked it again behind him.

He turned down the hallway and found his housekeeper Hoovering his lounge.

“Ah, Mrs. Pringle, could you be so kind as to make me a cuppa?” he asked. “And bring me a few biscuits if you don’t mind.” 

“Right away sir,” She switched the Hoover off and bustled her way towards the kitchen.

Mycroft sank down into his leather armchair and steepled his fingers. Like his brother, he always did his best thinking when it was quiet.

But he would never admit that. Out loud.

His mobile hummed.

He pulled it out of his trousers pocket and uttered an expletive when he saw the caller ID.

“Yes?”

“We got a situation,” Agent Eduardo Lucas of Her Royal Majesty’s Secret Service crisply informed him. “How soon can you be in Paris?”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered shut and he rubbed his temple. “Brief me.”

After ringing off with Lucas, Mycroft called Anthea to have her make his travel arrangements. Once done with her, he rose from his chair, slowly, his ribs still bruised from the car accident last August.

If she wasn’t so useful, not to mention valuable, Mycroft would have contemplated killing Violet.

After her little stunt at his parents’ estate, he might have even killed her with his bare hands.

“Mrs. Pringle,” he called as he made his way to his bedroom. “Put the tea in a thermos. I’ll drink it on the way to the airport.”

**

5 September 2015  
221B Baker street  
Saturday afternoon   
2:30 PM

After Mrs. Hudson let him in, John climbed the stairs up to the familiar flat and knocked on the door labeled “221B.” A police file was tucked underneath his arm. “Hello?”

“It’s open,” called Violet Smith.

John poked his head in and saw Violet Hunter curled up on the sofa, her hair loose and curling over her shoulders and an afghan thrown over her legs. Gladstone managed to get himself back up on the sofa and sat near Violet’s feet.

John let himself in and shook his head, smiling when he saw someone had constructed a small two-step staircase so Gladstone could climb up on the sofa without aggravating his wound.

“Someone’s been busy,” he pointed at the little stairs.

“Keeps him out of my hair,” Violet reached over and tossed the French textbook and notepad onto the coffee table. She had resumed tutoring Archie after the media frenzy died down a bit after the Copper Beaches case. She was pleased to learn that his vocabulary had grown exponentially during his holiday.

His accent, she discovered, still sucked.

“And how are you feeling?” John asked.

“Run down,” she admitted, using her real accent instead of the fake British one. “The doctor said it’s to be expected after everything that’s happened. He said one of the long term effects of arsenic poisoning is muscle weakness and I’ve been having some aches and pains. I freaked out the other day because my hands went numb, but the doctor said that’s also to be expected. He’s more worried about the possibility of cancer. I get to go back for a body scan in a few weeks.” She rolled her eyes. “And Sherlock keeps randomly checking my pulse because he’s worried about hypertension and cardiomyopathy since cardiac disease is another side effect of arsenic poisoning. I told him the only one giving me high blood pressure around here was _him_.”

John grinned but asked in his stern “Dr. Watson” voice, “What did he say about your kidneys and stomach? Everything else check out?”

“He said no major organ damage, but they’ll double-check that with the MRI and PET scan. And I’m supposed to go the hospital immediately if I notice any changes to my bathroom and eating habits,” her nose crinkled in distaste.

“Kidney failure’s no joke, Violet. Arsenic can shut down your entire renal system.”

“OK _Dad_ , but like I said my doctor’s more worried about the cancer risks,” a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. But she grinned again. “He was pissed when I told him how Sherlock made me throw up again after I had gotten sick at the Copper Beaches. He said that was risky as hell and he should have taken me to an A&E.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I said,” She then shrugged dramatically and fluttered her eyes. “Who wants to live forever?”

“And how’s this one?” John scratched Gladstone’s ears.

“Getting better,” Violet gave her dog an affectionate smile. “A few more weeks and he’ll be back to fighting form. He’s getting tired of being cooped up in 221B, I can tell.”

“Speaking being cooped up,” John scratched Gladstone’s ears again. “An opening came up at the clinic I volunteer at. They need an office manager.”

“Oh?”

“The pay’s complete crap, but the hours are flexible. And they’re only looking for a part-timer.”

“It would be nice to get out of here once in a while,” she drummed her fingers on her chin. “I’ll email you my resume tonight.”

“Great! I think you’ll really like it there. Everyone’s very nice but the office is in complete chaos. They need someone who has an iron fist within a silk glove.”

“Sounds like the perfect challenge for ‘Miss Smith.’” Spying the police file under his arm, she added, “He’s on the roof.”

“He’s on the… do I even want to know?”

“I told him if he jumped, no one would feel sorry for him.”

John laughed but then noticed that there was a very bare space in the flat. “When did he get rid of his desk and computer?”

“Must have happened last night,” Violet frowned. “It was gone this morning when I got up to let Gladstone out.” She reached for the French textbook. “I hope whatever’s in that folder is at least a Six. I checked his browser history last night and I’m a little concerned for my safety.”

“Not the beehives again,” John groaned.

“I wish. Spider monkeys.”

“Spider monkeys, oh boy,” John ran his hand through his silvery blond hair. Then he grinned, “Hey, silver lining, he’s over his koi fish kick, that’s something, right?” He chuckled at Violet’s black look. “Relax, this is a solid Eight. Locked room mystery.”

“Oh his favorite, next to serial killers,” Violet picked up her highlighter as John headed towards the staircase that led up to his old rooms.

Slower than normal, John made his way up the staircase. The dog bite and sprain were healing quite nicely, despite the strain he had put on his ankle at The Copper Beaches. The doctor said in a fortnight he could probably start riding his bicycle to work again.

Once in his old room, John saw the skylight had been left wide open and the rickety folding ladder were down. A few leaves were on the floor, some were green, some already golden. Autumn was already slowly pushing summer away.

John carefully made his way up the ladder to the roof. He stuck his head out and immediately saw the Great Detective.

It was a fair day, not blistering hot like the last time John talked to Sherlock on this rooftop. The sun still shone, but it was cool enough to warrant a jacket.

Or at least, John thought he needed a jacket and so was wearing his favorite black motorcycle jacket. Sherlock was swathed in his Belstaff. John didn’t think it was that cold out, but he knew better than to harp on his friend’s strange clothing choices. Sherlock had exactly two fashion looks: Posh or Homeless.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the roof, ear-buds in, his eyes locked on his smartphone, his laser-like focus trained on the tiny screen. He wore his usual coal-black suit but there was a leaf stuck in his hair and he was sock-footed. His shoes sat next to him. A cup of tea sat next to his shoes, forgotten. 

Even still, he murmured “Hello John,” without looking up as John hovered over him.

“Hey, what are you doing up here?”

“Thinking.”

But John saw what Sherlock had been watching before he thumbed over the screen, closing the app. “You came all the way up here so you could finish binge-watching _Dexter_?”

“Don’t judge me,” he snarled. “Violet told me it wasn’t worth watching after Season Four, but I have to disagree.” He pulled the ear buds out, his eyes locking on the file under John’s arm. “Case?” his eyes lighting up with interest.

“Mm, yeah. Lestrade rang me. Said he thought we might find it interesting.”

“Oh Lestrade rang _you_ ,” Sherlock’s brows flew up. “So you’re his errand boy now? Running messages between me and the detective-inspector are you now?”

“For your information,” John watched Sherlock cross his arms and rested his elbows on his knees. As Sherlock rested his chin on his arms and looked very much like a sulky child, John continued, “I told Lestrade that this stalemate between you and him is ridiculous and it’s going to take  both of you to protect Molly and the baby.”

“You…” Sherlock lifted his eyes up. “Defended me?”

John tilted his head, his silvery brows crinkled together. “Of course I did. I always do.”

“Yes, well, that’s just out of some misplaced sense of loyalty.”

“Or it’s because you’re my best friend, you idiot.” John fidgeted, looked incredibly uncomfortable. “Actually, Greg and I, we got into a bit of a row, actually. I told him off. I told him I was tired of being stuck in the middle and I know damn well Molly’s not OK with this. He, uh, told me something and I think he did it out of spite.”

“He told you I was high the night Molly and I conceived Henry.”

“Um, yeah,” John’s cheeks turned slightly pink. He cleared his throat, “I told him that was a dickish thing to do, to betray your confidence just because he’s angry with you,” John felt Sherlock’s kaleidoscopic eyes on him now, scanning him, deducing him. He was so used to this by now it didn’t even really faze him anymore.

“He told you why I got high,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Yes,” John gripped the folder tighter than he meant to, crinkling it. “Sherlock, I am so sorry. What I said to you that night, last January, it was unforgiveable.”

“We’ve already been through this, you’ve already apologized and I’ve deleted it. There’s nothing more to say,” Sherlock tucked his mobile into his coat pocket and drew his knees to his chest.

“Maybe not for you,” John said in that wonderfully, maddeningly stubborn way John got when he had sunk his teeth into something. “But I do. Have something to say. It’s been on my mind ever since you made that comment after you sent that knob Trevor packing.”

“Which was?”

“The bit about how you wonder if he’d ever stop being embarrassed by you.”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock waved that away. “It was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” John said doggedly. “It’s not. Listen,” he took a step forward and removed the leaf from Sherlock’s hair. Twirled it in his hand for a moment as he gathered his thoughts, then he let the leaf go. The wind took it and both men watched the leaf spinning in the breeze as the wind pushed it through the London skies.

“I’m not embarrassed by you,” John sat down next to Sherlock.

“I know.”

“And I should have never…” John shook his head. “It was thoughtless and stupid and selfish and it triggered a relapse. That’s on me, Sherlock. I don’t care if you deleted it, but I can’t. That’s on me and, well,” he studied the police folder. “I can’t fix it. Lestrade and I actually spent most of the morning shouting at each other, but I couldn’t sway him. He thinks Molly and the baby are safer away from you. I think he’s dead wrong.”

“Anger and love are powerful motivators, John,” Sherlock murmured. “Emotion is dictating Greg’s actions right now. You’re wasting your time discussing the matter with him,” he reached for his shoes. Tying the laces, he added in a subdued voice, “And there’s nothing _on_ you John. I chose to get high. I chose to go to Molly’s flat. I chose…” he shook his shaggy head . His hair had grown mostly back now from his unexpected shearing last March. Now he could do with a haircut. “I chose unwisely. The only thing I can do is learn from the experience and apply it to future circumstances in order not to make the same errors.”

“Which is?”

“Caring is not an advantage,” he grunted as he stood up.

“That’s crap and you know it,” John snapped, trying to get to his feet. Sherlock looked down, stretched out his long arm and offered John his hand.

As Sherlock helped him stand up, John could see Sherlock’s pale face had assumed its usual cool, aloof façade. His eyes took everything in but revealed nothing.

John mentally kicked himself. He had waited too long to talk to Sherlock.   

However, one could not be best friends with Sherlock Holmes without picking up a thing or two. John did observe how Sherlock no longer looked like the ageless seraph he had met all those years ago at St. Barts. Back then, John couldn’t tell if Sherlock had been twenty-five or thirty-five. Now, John knew Sherlock stood on the very precipice of forty. Pain and exile had taken their toll on his face. Maybe Sherlock could hide his feelings, but he couldn’t hide the creases starting to show along the sides of his mouth. John didn’t know what to call those. They sure as hell weren’t smile lines. But the crinkles that appeared around his eyes when he actually produced a genuine smile didn’t smooth away when he stopped. Most disturbing of all, there were always faint lavender smudges under his eyes, tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation.

John didn’t know if Sherlock was sad or anxious or angry. But he knew his friend was exhausted. And little wonder too.

“They ask too much of you, Sherlock,” he softened his voice as he let go of Sherlock’s hand. “All of them. And me, I expect too much from you. I’m greedy. I should have been content with my one miracle and I keep asking for more.”

“John,” Sherlock chided him. “Nothing will give me more pleasure than to return Marissa to you.”

John decided to ignore how Sherlock left Mary out of that sentence.

“Besides,” Sherlock plucked the police file from out of John’s hand. “The more work they send me, the less time I have to be bored. If only all our cases were like the Copper Beaches,” Sherlock flipped the folder open and started reading. “Mmm although, this _does_ sound promising... Robert Ferguson reported to the Met that someone was sucking the blood out of his baby and suspects the mother? It’s obviously not the mother, but of course the Met’s too dim to observe _that_.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” John deadpanned then quipped, “Oh I already checked. They don’t sparkle.”

“What does sparkling have anything to do with this case,” Sherlock muttered, nose stuck in the case file.

“Sparkling… you know… vampires.”

“Vampires don’t sparkle, John.”

“They did in _Twilight_.”

“What’s _Twilight_?”

“You don’t want to know,” John grumbled. “Mary makes me watch the stupidest films.”  

“Yoo-hoo, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson’s head poked out of the skylight. “The delivery men are here. They want to know where to put it.”

Sherlock made his usual huff of impatience, “In the giant empty space where my desk and old computer used to be, _obviously_.” 

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, young man,” Mrs. Hudson scolded him but John caught a smile as she ducked back down inside the flat.

“What did you do?” John asked, seeing a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye now. “Sherlock, if you bought a spider monkey, Violet is going to wring your skinny neck.”

“Ah, excellent,” Sherlock grinned. “My ruse worked. I knew Violet wouldn’t be able to resist nosing about. Come along,” he headed down the skylight. “I want to make sure they don’t scratch or break anything, plus we must discuss this fascinating case further. Tea?”

“What? Oh, yeah, a cuppa be nice, thanks,” John said warily, wondering what in the blazes his friend was up to now.

His friend was up to something… kind.

John entered the lounge and saw two beefy men carefully dismantling a large, wooden box . John caught the name “Steinway” stamped on the side of the box.

Violet and Mrs. Hudson stood together. Violet had pulled her hair back and put her fake eyeglasses on. Gladstone watched with interest, his tail thumping the couch cushion.

When the boards fell away and revealed its contents, Violet clapped her hands over her mouth. 

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked her in a hushed voice.

John screwed his face up in confusion. Granted, Mrs. Hudson stood there, so yes, he supposed Sherlock and Violet had to put on their Happy Couple Show… but Sherlock really sounded like he cared whether or not she liked it. He should have been able to _deduce_ whether or not Violet liked it… shouldn’t he?

And since when exactly had Sherlock ever cared about anyone’s opinion?

John didn’t like this show of uncertainty, act or not. 

“Like it?” Violet half-laughed, half-gasped. Her accent was not real but the smile most definitely was. As was her surprise. “You stupid man, it’s _gorgeous_.”

And it really was gorgeous, a gorgeous Steinway & Sons Essex upright piano. The glossy cherry wood shone in the afternoon sun. Intricate hand-carved acanthus leafings decorated the legs. The keys tinkled lightly as the men carefully settled the instrument into its new home.

“Oh Sherlock, how _lovely_ ,” Mrs. Hudson sighed, growing misty-eyed.

There was a knock on the door frame. “Pardon me for intruding,” a small bespectacled man stood with a black bag, reminding John of an old-fashioned doctor’s kit. “But a Mr. Holmes contacted me about tuning a piano?”

As one delivery man assembled the piano bench and the other picked up the rubbish while the piano tuner got to work, Mrs. Hudson dabbed her eyes and said, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“None for me, Mrs. Hudson,” Violet said swiftly then added with a sheepish smile. “I’ve gone off tea. After what happened at the Rucastles… I just… can’t.”

Both John and Sherlock hid their smirks. Finally Violet had a solid excuse to duck out of tea.

“Oh, of course dearie,” Mrs. Hudson patted her arm. “I’m the same way with tequila. Mr. Hudson and I went to Mexico for a weekend, while we were living in Florida and well… that was a long time ago.” She bustled off to start tea.

Violet Hunter whispered to Sherlock, “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged, “Happy birthday and Merry Christmas for the next ten years.”

She snorted but she really did look like a little girl who had gotten her heart’s desire for Christmas as she watched the piano tuner work. 

Sherlock drifted towards his music stand, gathering sheet music. John, feeling useless, wandered into the kitchen. “Need a hand, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh no, but some company would be lovely, John,” Mrs. Hudson beamed. She peeked out of the kitchen door, smiling as she watched Sherlock fussing over his sheet music. “They really suit each other, don’t they now?” she sighed happily as she filled the kettle.

“Yeah,” John leaned on the door frame. “They do.”

He felt something ripping inside his chest. He was glad Mrs. Hudson’s back was to him.

The tearing feeling continued to plague him after the tea was made and the piano was tuned. 

After Sherlock paid the delivery men and the piano tuner and they went on their way, Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together and said “Violet, play a tune, why don’t you.”

“Oh,” Violet put down the mug of hot cocoa Mrs. Hudson insisted on making her since she was off tea now. She was perched on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, right next to him. Not on top of him, like Janine had been, but definitely closer than she normally sat by him. She slid off the chair arm while Sherlock lightly traced his fingertips down her back.

John nearly fell out of his chair.

This subtle intimacy was _definitely_ new, John realized. He wondered if this was a new part of their act. After all, they were supposed to be engaged. And both Sherlock and Violet were superb actors. Not to mention world class liars. 

_And yet…_ John still felt his insides being shredded. 

Looking like she felt a bit self-conscious being asked to perform on the spot, Violet pulled out the piano bench and sat down. She ran her fingers over the gleaming black and white keys, just for the pleasure of touching them. Then she began playing the opening to _Fur Elise_.

“Boring,” Sherlock announced loudly. He bolted up out of his chair and snatched up the sheet music he had been looking for earlier. He reached over Violet and lined up the pages in a row on the piano’s music holder. “Give this a try. I think this is more suited to you.”

“Alright, give me a moment to read through it at least,” Violet muttered, adjusting the fake glasses, miming which keys to play as she read through Sherlock’s latest composition.

“Oh, this is exciting,” Mrs. Hudson beamed, sitting next to John on the client’s chair.  
“Mm,” John tried to look excited as Violet poised her fingers over the piano, waiting for Sherlock’s cue.

The violinist counted down and the pianist started playing her part. The rich, warm resonating piano cords supported the violin’s melody when Sherlock drew the bow across the strings. 

John immediately recognized the violin music when Sherlock started to play his part. How could he forget that dark, dangerous and seductive song? How elegant it had sounded yet dark at the same time. But below the darkness and sophistication was something playful and provocative.  And powerful. And heartbreaking.

John recalled catching Violet’s eye weeks and weeks ago when he first heard this tune and she had shrugged while Sherlock had been composing. _Something new,_ she had said.

He had mouthed _Victor?_ at her.

She had cocked her head, listening to Sherlock play a few full bars of whatever he had composed. Then she had shaken her head and said _Doesn’t fit the profile_ … _For Victor_ , _the music doesn’t match his personality._  

_Of course it doesn’t fit Victor’s personality_ , John thought. _It matches_ your _personality. This is you, Violet. He wrote this for you…_

And now John knew why he felt like being torn apart. He wasn’t jealous, just very, very sad.

As the violin and piano dueled with each other and danced with each other, John realized why Sherlock had shut down emotionally on the roof. He had closed himself off to John because he didn’t need John as a confidante anymore.

He had her now. And she suited him. They fit. They worked.

John wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when he saw him with Mary for the first time.

He wondered how long this newly-excavated chasm in his chest would hurt, no _burn_.

_I’ll burn you… burn the heart out of you…_

He actually couldn’t distinguish which hurt more, losing his daughter, or losing his best friend.

**

 

5 September 2015  
The Fitzwilliams Hotel Belfast  
Belfast, Ireland  
Saturday afternoon   
4:30 PM

He didn’t stay in the country after the Copper Beaches fiasco, but he didn’t go far.  

“Thank you,” he said to his personal butler after he had served him tea.

The butler nodded, pretending not to notice his repulsive, scarred face and hand.

Clad in the plush white dressing gown and slippers the hotel provided for their penthouse guests, he sipped his tea as the events of the last few weeks rolled around in his head.

_Should have killed him when he was a just a little boy,_ he raged behind his permanent Halloween mask. _Or even when he was a younger man. He’s too much for me now_. 

He flashed back on that horrible night. Limping out of the boathouse after that bony bitch delivered an unexpected beating. How he and the Black Lotus body guard had limped out of the boathouse. As the guard had been readying the speedboat for their escape, he had looked up… and saw _him_. Not his face, of course. It was too dark. But the security lights made it just bright enough to create a silhouette. He saw enough to know exactly who that tall man was as he made his way down the footpath at a rapid clip towards them.

He saw that he also held a gun. He saw the thin man lift it, point it _at him_. 

Too late, he remembered how Charles Augustus Magnussen had died.

Too late, he remembered how he had given  Magnussen a tasty tidbit about the Holmes Brothers. About why ickle William had clung to his Irish Setter.

_Redbeard_.

Bloody stupid name for a dog.

But the boy always did like pirates.

And the man had lowered his gun for some reason. Someone had called him on his mobile and distracted him. But who? The doctor or the federal agent? Or possibly someone else even.

There was a slight tremble to his hand when he set down the dainty porcelain tea cup.

Despite being in a luxurious penthouse that was larger than most people’s homes, Lord Heathcliff Cullen-Culpepper felt the walls closing in on him. For the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do. He hated this rudderless feeling as he drifted into a sea of uncertainty, with no land in sight. And surrounded by hungry sharks.

His mobile chirped. Not his personal Smartphone. But the mundane little prepaid mobile they insisted he carry with him. They claimed they couldn’t be traced.

The Earl smiled grimly as he slowly rose from his chair. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft Holmes hadn’t authorized the Research and Development department of MI-6 to find a way to trace prepaid mobiles. That would be a very practical, Mycroftian thing for him to do.

The prick.

Slowly he made his way to the table were the prepaid was tucked into his jacket pocket. The redheaded bitch shacking up with William (… _he will always be William to me…_ ) had given him a major concussion. The drive back home had taken longer than it should have as they had to pull over often so he could vomit. His private physician had scolded him soundly, insisted on taking him to an A&E but he made the doctor treat him in the security of his London home.

The cunt also had given him hairline fractures on his right humerus. His left arm was merely deeply and badly bruised.

He wished Rucastle could have his way with her and let Toller play with the leftovers.

Naturally he had missed the call, but he knew the number to call back.

“You’re a hard man to get in touch with,” a familiar soft, wheezing voice with a slight Irish lilt answered then chuckled. “Where are you?”

“Your back garden,” the Earl snapped.

“Dear, dear,” the old man on the other end chided him. “Heath, is something amiss?”

“Is something… yes, there bloody well is something amiss! Have you not been paying attention? _The Copper Beach Massacre_ , they’re calling it, the press!”  

“Mm,” the old man still sounded amused. “Better than _The Burned Girls_.”

“I told you,” the Earl seethed. “I told you and Joss Woodhouse told you, this harebrained scheme of yours wasn’t going to work!”

“Of course it didn’t work,” the old man chortled. “It was never supposed to work.”

“What?” the Earl felt a sick, fluttery feeling in his gut.

“It was never supposed to work, at least, the bit about demoralizing Holmes into such a torpor that he gives up detective work and goes to live in the county with his gay lover. That was too convoluted and quite frankly, too ridiculous to have worked. However, the bit about dropping dead weight, Rucastle and the Tollers, _that_ worked out brilliantly. I must admit, I couldn’t believe how thick they were, to believe that publically displaying their kills was ever a good idea. Although you must be relieved, now that the shadow of suspicion has finally been lifted off of you, now that the rumor about you authorizing Lady Elise’s murder so you can claim her inheritance has finally been laid to rest.”

“I, I, I don’t understand,” the Earl stuttered. “Don’t get the wrong impression, please. I am grateful that foul story has been put to bed. I liked Ellie, very much. We were playmates as children. I grieved when she died.”

“But?”

“How is this supposed to neutralize Holmes?”

“Which one?” the old man definitely was taking the piss out of him now.

“William, of course. I have Mycroft’s balls in a vise. I nearly have the votes I need in the House of Lords to pass my Transparency Bill and demand MI-6 to start declassifying their files.”

“Oh my, how Mycroft would howl if that happened,” the old man purred.

“I told you I’d handle the elder brother, you were supposed to handle the younger,” he spat into the mobile.

“How odd,” the old man purred again, sounding more like a hungry lion rather than a harmless kitty cat. “To me, it seems like I’m the one handling Mycroft. Seeing as I’m the one who implemented the mole into MI-6. Oh, I do appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into this mission, but the vote won’t pass, I’m afraid. However, the threat itself is working as an effective smoke-and-mirrors ruse. Keep him blinded, keep him scared.”

“What,” the Earl started to pace, albeit painfully slow. “Was the _fucking_ point of The Copper Beaches, if not to contain William, then what?”

“I already told you,” the old lion now growled. “I needed to get rid of Rucastle and the Tollers. Rucastle owed us millions of pounds to cover up a multitude of his sins. His sweatshops, his dog fighting rings, covering up for the Tollers out whenever they got a bit too murderous. I got tired of waiting for payment. Sherlock and his Baker Street Irregulars merely did the dirty work for us. It was an expedient way to handle business. And this is all business, Heathcliff.”

“I put my neck out on the line for you,” the Earl snapped.

 “A necessary risk that was greatly appreciated,” the old lion said amiably. “Plus, we also appreciate your prompt payments. Your accounts are in order, well, not quite.” Now the old lion was regretful. “You were supposed to deliver Violet Hunter to us, not get pummeled by her.”

“Why not just out her as a terrorist?” the Earl asked. “Send her back to America and let them deal with her. Why let her continue with this ridiculous ‘Miss Smith’ farce? I assure you, William is not in love with her. She’s… ah…well,” he smiled, making his vile face appear even more gruesome. Fortunately no one was there to see it. “Not his type.”

“The Americans would just kill her which would be a waste. My dear boy Jim (God rest his soul) gave something to Agent Hunter in confidence,” the lion patiently explained. “And I merely wish to know what that was.”

“Ahh,” the Earl cottoned on. “She has the missing piece of it then, doesn’t she?”

“She does.”

“I see now why Mycroft glued her to his baby brother’s side,” the Earl mused. “This changes everything.”

“Glad you see things my way now,” the old lion’s voice was a touch condescending.

“I still think The Copper Beaches was a waste of time,” the Earl said sourly.

“Despite rumors to the contrary, Sherlock Holmes is still a mortal man,” the old lion explained, this time impatience tinting his words. “Like all mortal men, he has a breaking point. This case merely pushed him closer to that point.”

“And when he breaks?”

“Then he’s _ours_.”

“I don’t want him joining the _Rouge_!” the Earl burst out. “I want him _dead_.”  

“You can’t afford that price tag,” the old lion said silkily.

The Earl held a trembling hand to his eyes and tried to marshal his flying thoughts. That horrible sense of claustrophobia closed in on him again. “Jamie, please…”

“Oh relax,” the old lion said jovially. “Once we have _William_ , you will never worry about him or Mycroft ever again. You will be King of England in all but name.”

“I don’t want to be _King_ ,” the Earl sat at a snail's pace onto the sofa. His legs would no longer support him. “I want what was promised to me.”

Sitting in Regent’s Park, the old lion sighed heavily. He had so dearly wished Sherlock would have solved this problem for him as well. The Earl’s demands were getting a bit… tedious.

He hoped to appease the spoilt, disfigured lord quickly so he could resume bird-watching, one of his favorite pastimes.

Because that’s what silver-haired, bespectacled old men did, watch birds and drink coffee. 

He sipped his coffee leisurely, imagining Heathcliff’s frantic pacing and then sinking into the closest seat in defeat.

Finally he replied, “You want something more than unlimited political power and an open agreement to continue covering up your… ah… _indiscretions_?”

“You promised me,” the Earl lowered his voice, trying to control his temper, “The good doctor’s daughter. I want Marissa Watson.”

“Ah.” So that was it. “Unfortunately, we hit an unexpected bump in that road. My mole is working on it. However, Mycroft’s access to that particular division has been severely restricted.”

He frowned, thinking fast, thinking _Sherlock-fast_. As much as he wished Sherlock would have rid the world of the Earl just as he had with Magnussen, the old lion regretfully realized he still needed the Earl. Needed to keep him sweet, keep him happy. The end game was so close, the final game, the _Great Game_.  

And he needed the Earl to play his part. He was merely a pawn, yes, but an important pawn. He needed to be in the right spot at the right time so he could be sacrificed.

He looked up and his brown eyes lit up as a feral smile crossed his lips.

He had spied the real reason why he came to Regent’s Park today.

“I have a counter-offer,” he said coolly.

“I’m listening.”

The man John knew as Mr. Kincaid looked across the park and watched a pair of newlyweds walking arm-in-arm around the duck pond. The man had gone silver-haired prematurely and the woman’s hair was long and auburn. She was also hugely pregnant.

The good DI and the sweet little pathologist.

_Perfect_. 

“Instead of the daughter of John Watson, how do you feel about the son of Sherlock Holmes?”

To be continued in _Paracosm_ …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerd Alert: 
> 
> References and “Easter Eggs”:
> 
> ACD Canon Quotes: 
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Copper Beaches. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.
> 
> Doyle, A. C., & Morley, C. (1930). The Adventure of the Valley of Fear. The complete Sherlock Holmes. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Co.
> 
> The Daughter of Time Easter Eggs:
> 
> Tey, J. (1995). The daughter of time. New York, N.Y.: Scribner Paperback Fiction.
> 
> Alana Grant, murder victim = Alan Grant, police inspector  
> Martine Hallard, murder victim = Marta Hallard, actress  
> Josie Tey, survivor = Josephine Tey, author of The Daughter of Time  
> Evie Payne-Payne, survivor = Evelyn Payne-Ellis, author  
> Antonia “Toni” Pandy = “Tonypandy” is a phrase Josephine Tey coined in The Daughter of Time. It refers to how the British government reacted when the miners went on strike in the village of Tonypandy. Tey used the phrase to describe how distorted perception can still be viewed as reality, even when the truth is staring at you in the face.   
> The best example of “Tonypandy” would be the perception of King Richard III, which also was the mystery Alan Grant tried to solve in the story of The Daughter of Time; whether or not if Richard III really was responsible of the murder of the two Princes in the Tower. History has shown that Richard III most likely was not behind the strange disappearance of the two royal boys. But, to this day, some still view Richard III the hunchbacked villain because of the Shakespearean play. However, my guess is that Shakespeare wrote Richard III as a bad guy mostly to suck up to Elizabeth the Virgin Queen. It was her grandfather who usurped the throne from Richard III, after all. I’m assuming our old buddy Will enjoyed breathing, so OF COURSE he would describe the last King of York as "rudely stamp'd" and "deformed, unfinish'd"!  
> (Also – in case anyone was wondering, I was half-way finished with this fic when I learned Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch would play this infamous king. So that was just a happy coincidence. Don’t believe Mycroft, coincidences do happen occasionally!)
> 
> The book The Rose of Raby twenty-four year old Sherlock bought was named after the same historical fiction read by Inspector Alan Grant while he was in the hospital. This was “written” by Evelyn Payne-Ellis. This book only exists within the pages of The Daughter of Time.


End file.
